


The Earth, They Plead

by speckledsolanaceae



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Body Horror, Climate Change, Found Family, Gen, Gun Violence, M/M, Multi, OT21 (NCT), Panic Attacks, Physical Violence to Minors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Semi-graphic violence, cameo appearances - Freeform, so I didn't tag them, some ships are just starting to form, unique powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-05-16 02:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 84,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19308406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speckledsolanaceae/pseuds/speckledsolanaceae
Summary: The world has had centuries to adjust to nature, and maybe it already has—so much so that all consideration and care ended up bleeding into the background, its population dominating the Earth rather than seeking to preserve.After years of exploitation,There really wasn't much time left.





	1. Faith, Trust, and Back Lock Rust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note for things I didn't know how to tag: This fic starts out with members from Dream, but the fic itself contains all members, and all members will have a chance to narrate. It actively switches between third person omniscient and limited. Ships and relationships will be complex and build slowly, but I wouldn't call any of it slow burn. Lastly, _everyone_ is aged down two years (2017 equiv, though the setting is still 2019).
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Most people think that the earth lies at the center of the universe, . . . but [others] take the contrary view. At the center, they say, is fire, and the earth is one of the stars, creating night and day by its circular motion about the center.” -_ Aristotle

 

The number four kept pinging around in Jaemin’s head like it was a code or password to some critical structure, but it wasn’t. He just kept counting the bodies near him, himself included, like his skull was the tired captor of a frenetic brain.

One, Jisung.

Two, Jeno.

Three, Donghyuck.

Four, himself.

Jeno glanced at him, took in the stiffness Jaemin clearly wasn’t conscious of at that moment, and clapped a hand on the small of his back. Jaemin hissed in a breath.

“We’re going to get caught,” he said. _Four is too many_ , he didn’t say, but the rest of them seemed to hear it anyway. Jeno continued to hold his hand there against his spine, smooth his palm against the cloth there.

Even under the mouth mask Jisung wore, they could tell he had gone to gnaw at his bottom lip for a second before stopping.

They all watched Donghyuck remove his gloves.

“We can get caught,” said Donghyuck. 

One, Jisung.

Two, Jeno.

Three, Donghyuck.

Four, Jaemin.

Jisung straightened his sweatshirt, evening out the strings.

They stood in a milky-lighted back alley, sopping with weak artificial light. When they had walked there, one or two of them had looked up at the black sky. Somewhere beyond the shredded, dripping ozone layer shone the stars, but they had no way of seeing them.

In the back alley, though, some dust floated in the pathetic lamplight, and they could almost be stars.

“We can get caught,” Donghyuck said, quieter this time, as he held the gate padlock in his bare palm. He looked at Jaemin—not for permission, but for something close to it. Jeno was the oldest there and so he could ultimately call the shots, but there was always an unspoken agreement.

As stupid and dangerous as their work would always be, everyone in a unit had to be okay, had to be confident. Jaemin could be unflappable most of the year, but they all had fears, and the sour light didn’t make him look any more certain.

Jaemin breathed in, Jeno removed his hand, and a little bit of the tension between all four of them eased. Jaemin exhaled. “We can get caught,” he repeated back, and ran a hand through his hair.

They were all smart. They could get caught. They just couldn’t lose.

Donghyuck broke the lock.

* * *

 

One, Jisung. The mole—almost an agent, really. He always went first, and that gave almost all of the crew severe anxiety. He was the youngest, and the protective instinct was almost as difficult to shake as just about any mission they set out to do. Somehow, the fact that he was extremely competent didn’t help at all. If he were _less_ competent, at least they would have an excuse to bench him.

Instead, he went first.

Two, Jeno. The body-swapper—sounded disgusting but wasn’t. He was a safety net in a lot of ways in case Jisung got caught. Or anyone got caught. But he could also infiltrate just about anything in compromised positions. Get in, get out, and piss more people off than anyone could justify.

Three, Donghyuck. He was just Donghyuck—finding a name for what he did was like giving birth to a liger. In any case, it was outright dumb to go into a situation without someone who could achieve breakdown, and that was Donghyuck.

Four, Jaemin. The shield—simple. Nothing more to say.

* * *

 

Jeno watched as the wasted chunks of metal Donghyuck now held in his palm reformulated into the padlock he’d just destroyed. They had all agreed that it was safer to repair the lock just in case some patrol decided to scoot along their alley. If Donghyuck had to demolish the whole fence on their way out, he would. 

Their concern over the cameras was more minimal. No one on their crew could fix the problem without creating a bigger one, so they decided to simply be careful. Jeno had already spotted the visible cameras. One under the roof overhang, one on the fence they were now leaving behind. No big deal.

A voice introduced itself to each of them again, flowing from a small earpiece in each of their ears. “ _Everything looking okay?_ ” Jisung, having apparently forgotten his earpiece’s existence entirely, startled, his shoulders jumping up. Jaemin grinned at him.

“Mhm.” Jeno was the one to respond, lifting his gloved hand instinctively to secure the earpiece and speak back. “We’re at the entrance now.”

With that, Donghyuck gave something between a sigh and a calming exhale and pressed his bare thumb to the lock of the back door. The entire back and sides of the business was brick, left over from an older building effort that made their approach much easier, the windows above them higher up and for courtesy—no labor voyeurism allowed. Jisung’s eyes followed a swirl of rainbow oil in a bleak strain of pavement water, and they all breathed a steadying breath filled with the brimmed dumpster fumes that sat stiff and reeking next to them.

The decay of the lock was soundless, and so was their tension. It was impossible to know if an alarm would go off or not. If there was someone left in the building? No alarm. If everyone had left, the building would shriek bloody murder and very possibly bring shrieking murder upon them.

The metal door whined as Donghyuck pushed.

The alarm didn’t go off.

Jisung moved past him, his fingers fiddling with the loops of his face mask and the cap he wore over his hair. Jaemin stepped in after him, setting a hand on the corridor wall for the anxious need for something to compensate for the darkness, and the other two followed. Jisung was moving forward to locate the light, the sound of his fingers sliding along until they knocked into the switch. 

The repeated whine and click of the door warned of the darkness before it came.

In his smallest voice, Jeno said, “In.”

“ _Okay. Remember that there’s a basement._ ”

It sufficed to not respond.

Ahead of them, Jisung said, “Now?”

“Ready.”

The lights flickered on, whispering in a stingingly white fluorescence. They all discovered the walls to be a pasty grey.

Donghyuck put his gloves back on.

They moved.

* * *

This particular construction company was one of the two major businesses for the South Korean central regions, but some of their branches could be rather homely. Evidently, the back areas weren’t meant for prospective investors or commissioners, but they started to see snippets of appealing construction, leaning into restaurant enticements or clean, sweet home layouts.

A distant part of Donghyuck missed home as he tailed behind. He hadn’t heard from his parents or his younger siblings in months and he was starting to feel distant. The boys—his brothers here—filled the missing parts of him well and almost completely, but then he saw things like succulents and thought of his dad. A bluetooth speaker and thought of his mom singing to trot. If the company had only decided to leave out a few school workbooks and a musical instrument, the nostalgia would have left an inner part of him gasping.

He turned the lights off as they went, watching his brothers’ backs. He loved them, too, and somehow this life and his old life would come together eventually, right?

* * *

It was better for them to turn on the lights than use flashlights—at least for Jisung. Flashlights were too suspicious, and his act had to be casual and convincing if they encountered anyone. 

The beginnings of their conversation were shaky—most of all because they only knew loosely where they were going. The building was four floors and a basement. What they wanted was probably not in the fourth floor. That was it.

And that was why they were there. There was too much anxiety riding on going into buildings blind with only a motive. They needed floorplans to be able to see and understand where and how they were going.

“What do you think you’ll make for dinner?” Jeno asked, and that question from Jeno in particular could have only had one target, so Jaemin breathed a laugh.

“I don’t know. Will I have time to get to it?” It was already late in the day, a requisite sacrifice if they were to enter after most workers had left.

They’d decided to start with the basement, and Jeno was watching his steps, head down, but looked back just to meet that brief look Jaemin gave. “If we help.”

Jisung had started to take his mask and cap off at the very front, hands shaking as he stuffed them in his hoodie pocket. “I don’t think he’d want that.” The teasing was forced but still there, still bright in their youngest’s voice.

“Hyu—” Jaemin stopped himself. “One of you can help. You know who you are.”

Donghyuck laughed—just a breath—and reached out to touch Jaemin’s neck. The leather against his skin was soothing if only because Donghyuck’s own skin was one layer away.

They reached the switch at the bottom of the stairs and watched the fluorescents rasp on. Like in almost all basements, there was a chill on top of the most basic grey concrete and bars. The metal ventilation whispered what felt like slurs in their moment of strain.

Jeno murmured an update into his earpiece as they ventured forward. There were already tables and file cabinets and drawers to explore and hopefully pilfer, and they slowly made their way through isles of tables and metal cabinets with spotty conversation.

“What do your keys look like again?” Donghyuck asked, a poised lie toward their purposes. He was scouring a desk covered in papers while attempting to not obviously disturb the setup.

Somehow, Jisung managed not to laugh. He was too young to have a license—just under sixteen—and until they got something that ran a little more efficiently, it seemed wrong to put his hands on a wheel. For now, it was all just a necessary evil.

“It’s a Hyundai. And then I have that jade keychain.” The small detail made the rest of them smile in some form or other, Jeno’s eyes scrunching, Jaemin’s and Donghyuck’s glittering. They could all imagine the jade pendant under Chenle’s pillow. He was probably eating dinner—maybe getting ready for bed. He hadn’t objected to not being taken along since four was already a risk, but he had seemed anxious when they left, teasing Jisung perhaps a little too aggressively. Despite all the reassurances from their hyungs that this was a safer one, that it wouldn’t be too risky, that they’d be in and out fast enough to catch one of Taeyong and Yoonoh’s meals…

Still.

To Jisung’s answer, they gave silent nods, opened drawers, gave careful glances at closed doors. At one point, Jeno found a stack of blueprints, but they were irrelevant—structures for a mountain lodge floorplan project.

“Are these yours?” Jaemin held up a dongle of keys, eyes shining just a little. From the duo of keys on the dongle hung a Moomin keychain.

Jisung grinned, nose scrunching. “No.”

They kept looking, taking the keys with them just in case, and eventually they had to confront the doors.

Jisung took a breath, forced himself to relax, and tried the first one with an acting ease. Upon realizing the light was off, the real tension leaked back into Jisung’s build and he flipped the switch to illume what may as well have been a single cubicle. The room was cramped by large computer servers, only a single desk occupied by a fake plant and a sleeping computer sitting smack in the middle. The lights blazed white, the servers shivering and impersonal. No color, no windows.

Donghyuck grimaced. “Is this what the end of the world looks like?”

Just before any of them could smile, there was a jangling sound of keys—not from among them, but elsewhere. Back at the stairs that brought them to the basement, they all heard footsteps, then another jangle. Tension became anxiety that climbed through and seized in Jisung’s posture. 

Jisung took initiative; he stepped out of the doorway and watched the stairs with his hands flexing, his lungs taking deep and quiet breaths. Jaemin exhaled with him, breath trying to hiccup in his lungs without him allowing it. He slipped into the room in Jisung’s stead.

Ears straining to listen, Jaemin pulled open the first desk drawer. “There’s a guard, I think,” he whispered for the voice beyond the earpiece. It was better in that moment for that voice to be silent, but because of that, Jaemin had to hope that he was being heard. They were, after all, in the basement, and that voice had said nothing since their descent.

Donghyuck and Jeno attempted to act natural, opting to mimic murmured conversation as Jisung craned to see, stretched to act the most natural.

“Is that a guard?” Jisung called, and the steps hurried a little more, and everyone but Jaemin got to see that Jisung guessed right. “Oh thank god.” Jisung stepped forward and gave a half smile. Donghyuck and Jeno waited, trying to breathe.

“Oh!” said the guard, and gave a courteous bow. “Is there a problem, sunbaenim?”

Immediately, Jisung’s posture straightened and he took on a more authoritative stance, trying to adjust to what expectations the woman had. No one knew who she was seeing except for her. That was the way Jisung’s power worked: it was a one-way independent illusion of someone the target trusted, but the whole of them be damned if it gave him any more of an upper hand than that.

“I gave my keys to someone earlier in the day and forgot to get them back. I’m just searching the rooms.” Jisung looked sheepish. “Are any of these rooms locked?”

For the first time, the guard glanced at Donghyuck and Jeno, both of whom gave courteous recognition. “These are some family friends,” Jisung said, “I was going to drive them back when I realized I didn’t have my keys.” 

At this point, Jaemin took his own made-up cue to peek out and say to Jisung, “I don’t think they’re in here,” and switched off the light.

The guard looked out of place in the atmosphere they set and fiddled with her own keys. “I actually just came down to lock up. Do you want me to help you look?”

Jisung smiled. “Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can be reached @monsoonjoon on tumblr (or through the comments, which I will gladly respond to). You can expect me to update consistently once a week or more for a while, if not until the end. Please ask if you have questions! I'll answer if they won't spoil anything.
> 
> Thank you to Bee, who reads my writing and generally tolerates my pestering, and Neel, who answers any and all science questions I have regardless of if they are within his area of expertise.
> 
> 7/31 update: I got a twitter @speckledsolana. I'm totally new to this, but I think it's where I'll talk about writing or update you guys if my schedule changes. Feel free to follow!


	2. Escutcheon

_“Nothing occurs at random, but everything for a reason and by necessity.”_ \- Leucippus

 

None of them truly breathed until they had made it out of the basement, at which point the guard split from them to officially lock everything up. Even then, what oxygen they could take in was shallow and rancid. Jisung’s hands betrayed him as they shook on his next encounter with an office door.

Only Donghyuck had found something worth taking with them from the basement, and the most he could do in that situation was take mediocre pictures of the blueprints. They hadn’t intended on taking what things they found—that would ultimately be condemning if they were discovered—but the unexpected pressure from the guard made them all doubt, all wonder if they had missed something or that the pictures were blurry or—

“Hello, sorry,” Jisung said, and Jeno visibly ossified before shaking himself out. A worker glanced up from their computer, eyes looking a little worse for wear from the white-light screen. “I’m just looking for my keys. Have you seen them?”

Sometimes, they wondered who other people saw. What it was like for Jisung to act in another skin that he couldn’t even feel. It was impossible for them to know by now—once Jisung was trusted for who he was, his image was locked in place. He’d never been able to change into anyone to the rest of the crew. He was just their youngest brother.

“No,” the worker croaked, “but shouldn’t they be downstairs?”

“Already checked there. I think I gave them to one of the engineers. Can you remind me where their offices are?”

Stretching, the worker yawned. “Third floor.”

Jisung nodded, “Thank you. Don’t work too late.” and closed the door. 

By now, there was a fierce tremor in Jisung’s hands, and Donghyuck reached out to take them in his for just a moment with a deep smile. “I’m sorry, hyung,” Jisung squeezed out. Almost swaying, Jisung’s breath was just short of gasping. 

“It’s okay if we’re seen,” Donghyuck whispered.

Jisung nodded, visibly tried to shake off the need to cry, then slipped his hands out of Donghyuck’s grasp and made for the stairs.

“You’re doing so well,” Jaemin said, quiet but still enough to be heard by Jisung, and their maknae steeled himself further as he opened the door to the stairwell.

* * *

 

The third floor was silent, and none of the doors they tried revealed any more people. While they weren’t tech-ignorant, the four of them weren’t hackers and neither were any of the others in their crew.They could wake up all the computers they wanted, but the passwords wouldn't just appear out of thin air. They had to rely on the chances of physical blueprints—those chances being slim indeed, but not slim enough to deny them any results. Rummaging through long drawers gave them two more building layouts and large landscape draw-ups.

“Renjun-hyung, is three enough to hold us over?”

“ _Yes._ ”

All the air seemed to leave them at once. “‘Kay. We’re getting out.”

And they didn’t so much flee as they did urgently escape, taking the stairs back down at as quiet a clatter as they could manage. Donghyuck fumbled to send Renjun, the voice beyond the earpiece, the rest of the pictures, one leather glove clenched between his teeth, and almost missed the last step if it weren’t for Jeno’s hands jumping to steady him.

“ _Got them. Thank you,_ ” Renjun said as Jisung opened the door. He took about three steps back down the hallway toward the main entrance before halting completely.

The rest of them froze, everyone almost simultaneously landing their gazes on a group of six people gathered in the light of the main room. One of those people was the guard from the basement, hand outstretched to point at the four of them.

“I knew it,” said the guard, and just as Jisung said, “Don’t shoot, please,” Jaemin, Donghyuck, and Jeno processed the five others.

Flanking the guard were two people wearing dark glasses and bulletproof vests, both with their guns raised. Two others stood at the ready, identical aside from the guns. Weeders. At the middle of them all was a Bait.

Donghyuck made the barest wrinkle of a sound, a sound of anger being bitten back and swallowed. Jeno tensed, and Jaemin stayed as still as possible.

“You’re Witches,” the guard accused, and even from some distance, the look of smugness just under the terror in her face was glaringly present.

Jisung parted his lips to speak, to say anything to reduce the crisis. Renjun was silent, but they all knew he had to be hearing this, had to have been listening and now knew—

“And you’re filth,” Donghyuck spat, his velvet voice cracking out into something livid and grating. “That’s one of ours.”

He could only have meant the Bait.

One of the back two Weeders made a yanking motion, and the Bait stumbled forward at the end of a leash. “This thing?” said the yanker. The leash tightened and the Bait reeled back. “Make any move and we’ll kill it.”

The Bait’s torso was wrapped in a black straitjacket, collar strangling their neck. Mouth slung open with a gag, their eyes were completely covered by cloth, just visible under the cap encasing their head and ears. They could see their cheeks, hollowed out under all the cloth and restrictions, jaw like a knife of emaciation.

No one but Donghyuck had seen a Bait before—only heard about them being used. Witches taken, deprived of any of their senses and dragged around to root out other Witches.

Seeing one now—seeing one in the flesh—caused physical responses in all of them. 

Donghyuck snarled, both hands curling into fists, though only one was bare. Jisung appeared paralyzed, unable to check Donghyuck’s expression or actions behind him.

“Come peacefully and we won’t kill it. How does that sound?” The yanker had a voice like wood being sawed. The Weeders with guns held their weapons steady.

Donghyuck’s jaw tightened, working, his dark eyes burning with emotion neither Jaemin nor Jeno had ever witnessed before. But the appearance passed, and his gaze wavered, and then slipped down, posture weakening. 

In the midst of the yanker’s satisfied scoff, Donghyuck’s gaze moved to Jeno. 

Donghyuck blinked.

_Switch_ , the blink seemed to say.

Jeno’s reaction was instantaneous, his body gone in a split second. In his place was the staggering body of the Bait caught by Donghyuck’s ready arms. Among the enemy was the Bait’s replacement—Jeno. Jeno stood vulnerable, but acted faster than anyone could process. A bullet flew awry, hitting the wall and splashing shatters of paint and plaster, and the first enemy was down, choking against a punched windpipe. 

Jeno was their fighter, but he wasn’t perfect. Where Donghyuck could break things down and Jisung could fake an illusion, Jeno was all about movement. He was able to swap physical positions with people, had been training for months to pair it with hand-to-hand if they were in a pinch, but he wasn’t perfect.

They’d all watched him swap and then collapse in confusion, or push himself too hard and end up emptying his stomach up on the wood of their deck. He fell frequently, miscalculated momentum, couldn’t reorient quick enough. It was too soon for him. It just was.

Jaemin wanted to scream, but pushed Jisung back behind him instead, didn’t watch how his bodily thrust made Jisung reel and stumble, didn’t concern himself with what Donghyuck or Jisung did at all after that. He only ran to cross the space between him and Jeno as Jeno ducked a swing from one of the Weeders. Distantly, Jaemin could hear Renjun’s voice say something, but he wasn’t listening. 

One of the armed Weeders had stepped away and took aim.

Jeno wasn’t watching, was attempting to incapacitate the severe amount of people outnumbering him.

Jaemin reached out.

The gunshot sounded and felt explosive, shattering, massive for just a tiny bullet, and Jaemin staggered from the associated impact, palm and wrist screaming in pain as the shooter stood stunned. The bullet casing pinged, crushed against the ground with Jaemin still standing some five feet away from it all, cradling his wrist with his other hand. 

Jeno looked up, startled, then narrowly missed getting clipped by the guard.

It took a second and a half for the shooter to focus in on Jaemin, to realize he’d done something, though they probably couldn’t guess what. Jaemin’s wrist was screaming, nerves lancing with pain down his forearm.

“ _Did someone get shot?_ ” Renjun’s voice was just short of a yell. “ _That was the second gunshot, is everyone—_ ”

This time, the shooter aimed straight for Jaemin.

Jaemin braced, flinching to raise his other hand, eyes shutting tight, just as the Weeder squeezed the trigger.

The pain didn’t come.

Instead, the shot went awry just like the first one, and Jeno was left gasping for breath where the shooter had stood. Jeno watched as the bullet slammed into the vest of one of the enemy, then turned and ran.

Jaemin tried to blink away tears of pain as Jeno caught him in his arms, pushed him back and away toward an exit. Donghyuck, Jisung, and the Bait were already gone and out, and all Jaemin and Jeno had to do was sprint, get a metal door between themselves and the enemy, separate themselves somehow without getting shot.

Another bullet whizzed, but missed entirely. A second one followed and hit the plaster of the corner they turned. The door was ahead, Donghyuck holding it open, yelling, and they threw themselves out like they were being chucked by an invisible hand.

Donghyuck slammed the door behind them and truly, this time, they fled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really intend on updating right away, but getting my first comment really made me happy. Besides, Chapter 1 is kind of a weird place to end.
> 
> If you'd like, take a guess as to who the Bait is! I know there's not a lot to go off of, but you can take your best guess anyway! Also, enter Renjun as "the voice." He'll have more significant roles in other chapters, but his power wasn't well-suited to this mission, so he's being the man in the chair, so to speak.
> 
> Thank you for the positive reception ♡ I have six chapters in my backlog, so for the next while I may update twice a week, but as my writing slows down, it might be once a week. I'll try to keep everyone appraised.


	3. Chaos Relative

_“One way only is left to be spoken of, that it is; and on this way are full many signs that what is is uncreated and imperishable, for it is entire, immovable and without end. It was not in the past, nor shall it be, since it is now, all at once, one, continuous . . .”_ \- Parmenides

 

There was almost no distance to travel this time—Renjun was already there with the van just past the padlocked gate, and Donghyuck had almost broken the entire thing down in what must have been an unthinkingly desperate act. Jisung was already seated, hugging the body of the Bait to his chest, and as the rest of them rushed in, the van was off before the door could even be closed.

The Weeders were just barely falling out of the building when they turned the corner, pathetically far away, now. 

Donghyuck’s body collapsed into his seat with relief.

“Was _anyone_ shot?” Renjun demanded, and the phone he had set up on the console was ringing someone—ringing Taeyong, it looked like.

“No.” Jaemin’s voice came out strangled, eyes looking anywhere but at his injury. Jeno had his hand and wrist in his fingers, investigating the swelling flesh and the angry pink of developing bruises. 

Renjun’s whisper of, “Thank god.” was very nearly inaudible, his hands tightening once on the wheel before relaxing.

“Can you bend it?” Jeno asked, voice soft and eyes intent now on Jaemin’s face.

Jaemin could only nod, and Jeno nodded back before gathering Jaemin up in his arms—seat belts be damned—to hold him as the shock trickled through his system.

“ _Renjun?_ ” Taeyong’s voice broke through, sounding thin and betraying evidence that Renjun had already called him once before. “ _Is everyone—?_ ”

“Everyone’s here. Safe,” said Renjun, and Taeyong’s heavy exhale crashed through the speaker. “Jaemin’s injured but not seriously. Can we fill you in when we get back? I don’t think we’re being followed.”

The van trundled down the roads, undoubtedly just on the cusp of speeding, but Donghyuck, the only passenger even remotely concerned with what happened outside the van, had to agree. The roads were quiet, though the noise in his head was not.

“ _Yeah. Yeah, okay._ ” There was a brief, muffled sound where Taeyong must have been covering the receiver end to say something to someone on the side before he returned. “ _We’ll have dinner, okay?_ ”

“Make sure,” Donghyuck piped in, voice back to velvet, “there’s enough for six.”

Taeyong’s end was silent for several beats, in which time Jaemin finally started to sag. Jeno let him go and buckled him in as Jaemin tilted his head back and breathed, tears attempting to break free from his eyes. He could imagine Taeyong mentally counting how many of them they had dispatched, sure it had been five, doubting, recounting, then becoming nervous.

“ _O-okay._ ”

“Everything’s okay,” Renjun reiterated. “I promise. We’ll see you soon.”

With that, he hung up, and Jeno leaned forward to look at the body they could no longer leave on the backburner. Jaemin had petered out to wiping at his eyes, slowly calming while still leaning into Jeno.

“Are they—” Jeno began.

The Bait wasn’t locked in their straightjacket anymore, arms free and bony hands visible now. They were clutching Jisung’s arms in a vice that looked like it verged past uncomfortable, their face buried against his chest. Jisung looked almost as paralyzed as he had been in the front entrance of the construction company, but seemed more concerned about making zero sudden movements than getting shot. He breathed slowly, had seemed to barely have moved for the first portion of the ride.

Donghyuck slowly touched a hand to the Bait’s shoulder, then smoothed his palm down their back. “Hey.”

Another few seconds passed, in which time Jaemin’s breathing slowed completely, cheeks dry, and he too became fully intent on this person.

When their face finally showed, none of them allowed themselves to react.

The Bait’s eyes seemed huge in the hollows of their face, the corners of their mouth raw and blistered where the gag had abraded their mouth, lips scabbed with dried blood. The raw skin was shiny like a burn, and a dark line of bruises possessed their neck, spotted their cheekbones, purpled their jaw. Their hair was shaggy, oily, matted, and only after a moment did any of them register the stench of neglect and fear.

Jeno kept his jaw clenched, determined not to go slack and make a noise of injury. Neither he nor Jaemin—nor Jisung—had known precisely what it meant to be a Bait. Or rather, what being a Bait meant for the health of the one subjected to the role.

This person looked like they hadn’t eaten in months, and their big, shiny eyes pled a silent message Jaemin couldn’t make himself compute. The emotions there were just on the edges of overwhelming despair, and even torn from their families and fighting small but terrifying battles couldn’t lend them that understanding.

Still, Donghyuck didn’t even flinch. “What’s your name? Mine’s Donghyuck.”

This person didn’t answer. They only closed their eyes, breath shaking their frame if only because they were so thin. 

Jaemin assessed that they were probably male, lacking in a certain inexplicable femininity, but it was impossible to guess if they were older or younger than any of them in the van currently. No one could look at a patchwork of skin and injury stretched over bones and be able to guess if they were twelve or forty.

“I’m Jaemin.” He spoke slowly, hand and wrist lying in his lap and eyes dry and sure. “Jeno is next to me. You’re clinging to Jisung. He’s our youngest.” Jisung still hadn’t really moved, though he had tucked his chin in so he could observe his clinger’s face just as they had. He gave a stiff nod at being introduced, though the Bait’s eyes were still closed. “Oldest is driving—his name’s Renjun.” Renjun’s eyes flicked to the mirror to meet Jaemin’s eyes, but communicated almost nothing but a sheen of paleness on his skin.

They waited, watched as the boy’s fingers loosened one by one to release Jisung. This slow release did almost nothing to help their maknae, who still remained the breathing equivalent of a statue. 

His first attempt at a sound was horrible. A dry, aching rasp. His eyes fluttered open for the moment, still so big and black.

“—rk,” he tried, and Jeno wanted to wince at the painful movements he was making with his mouth. “Mark.”

Jeno couldn’t make himself smile, but Donghyuck continued to keep his hand against Mark’s back, and Jaemin gleamed just a little in the dark lighting of the back seat. “Hi Mark.”

“Mark,” said Donghyuck, “you look terrible.” and the sheer warmth and humor of Donghyuck’s voice, of his tone, made this freed creature dissolve immediately into tears.

* * *

 

The rest of the ride involved Jaemin explaining where they were going, filling in ideas of their identities and Mark’s included, and very occasionally listening to a brief few words from Mark himself. Mark Lee, Canadian, I don’t know.

Renjun had passed back some water, and Jisung was quick to promise that Mark would be cleaned up soon. He kept his eyes closed, and sometimes went completely, eerily still. While he was no longer clinging to their maknae, he seemed reluctant to be without any physical contact. His bony hand, for the majority of the ride, rested on Donghyuck’s knee. Jisung, meanwhile, had almost collapsed in his seat over the passing few minutes.

“You guys were busy, obviously, but getting Mark out of his—like… restraints wasn’t easy,” Donghyuck said, directing his words to Jeno and Jaemin.

“Donghyuck collapsed,” Jisung exposed, and Donghyuck seemed lacking in the defenses department.

“He—” he paused, “I think… Mark? Do you know what your power is?”

The water bottle in Mark’s free grip crinkled, his pale fingers pressing into the plastic. Beats of silence passed.

“Mark?” Donghyuck touched the hand on his knee, trying to breach the distance Mark’s closed eyes imposed. His lips became a thin, pinched line at seeing another tear squeeze past his dark eyelashes.

Renjun spoke up. “He’s overwhelmed. Let’s leave him be until we get home.”

Jeno nodded, resting back in his seat and pulling Jaemin’s injured wrist into his hands. They allowed silence to fall, and at some point, Jisung’s nodding head gave way to sleep.

The night landscape washed past them, lampposts pinging by with yellow light to contrast with the black blues of pavement and the occasional shrub. Music leaked out of the console CD player, balladic, melodic, and very quiet.

By the time they reached the abandoned parking lot, both Jeno and Jisung were knocked out and Renjun and Jaemin had to jostle them awake, extracting them from the van like bodies of wet ramen rather than muscle and bone. Donghyuck murmured to Mark, easing him out and lending his own body as a form of crutch.

“This is just where we leave the van,” Donghyuck said. “You’re okay.”

The parking lot was huge and just shy of revolting for its unnecessary indulgence if it weren’t that it was cracking and giving way to saplings, plants that the public would call weeds but they saw for their beauty. The land around the parking lot was unkempt, but unkempt in the way that a loved one was when waking up after a nap. The trees and grasses stretched to claim what had been lost. The lights in the parking lot had long flickered out. It was dark, and it was silent, but they still couldn’t see the stars for the city that sprawled behind them.

Jaemin could see an empty parking lot as one hell of an intimidation for someone in as bad a state as Mark, but it was only the pitstop. 

They were so close to home he could almost smell his sheets.

Renjun was already calling by the time they’d locked up the van, phone pressed to his ear, and the wait was little more than a handful of minutes before they could start to hear the ocean.

“Remember how I told you we’re called pirates, Mark?” Jaemin said, leaning in so he didn’t have to speak loudly over the rising sound. “‘Chaos Witches,’ ‘Pirates’—both are good.”

Under their feet, the cracking asphalt became wooden slats and dirt, sounds of an ocean becoming that very thing that stretched beyond them, wavering, salty and sweet, and a mass of a structure loomed up. To the straining imagination, the structure was a ship, but it was too woodsy, too wild. It seemed to emerge as a part of the sea rather than apart.

In the realms of Chaos, there were four aspects: breakdown, relativity, mind, and force. Many in the crew could create confusion in the mind, make reality seem different than it actually was, but this—

This was a Chaos Relative, compressing and revealing a reality that moved in deep time, earth time, chaos time. The visible sky through this portal was spilling with stars, the reflective waters a painting of space in color, and the ship lived among it all like a breathing, singing thing.

From the bridge that spanned between the ship and docks, a figure jogged down to meet them, shadowy even under the moon and stars. As soon as a few feet remained, it became obvious the person was Nakamoto Yuta, his bright smile reserved for them exclusively. Whatever flicker of expression there was when Yuta’s attention landed on Mark, it was brief.

“There’s six of you! Taeyong said there would be but it was so…” He made a so-so motion with his hand, still smiling. He meted out quick, but blissfully warm hugs from eldest to youngest, but gave Mark space—did not assume a hug was wanted, let alone a safe thing to give to someone covered in rashes and bruises. Still, he let Mark see his smile, then melted that smile down into something more serious. “Let’s get you guys fixed up, okay?” He shook his hair out of his eyes, and they were soft in the dark. “My name is Yuta,” he told Mark. “I hope you tell me more about yourself when you’re ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Holly who read over and encouraged me for this chapter! And Bee, of course.
> 
> I decided to update again because I just finished drafting chapter 8. I'm not committed to a strict schedule, so I think I'll try to update when I feel comfortable doing so with the chapter buffers I have. With Oddities, I liked to keep three chapters as a buffer, but I don't want to dump everything all at once (I say as I kind of sort of more or less do so anyway) even though I have five buffers for this fic.
> 
> Enter Yuta! There truly isn't a member who's any less central than the others, so each introduction is very fun for me.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed! And hopefully you'll forgive me for starting off with Mark in such a bad place. Hopefully.


	4. Meting Tears

_“. . . the world, in being drawn asunder, is drawn together—a backstretched connection, as in the bow and the lyre.”_ \- Heraclitus

 

It was as if Yuta was the singular tether to which they clutched in order to remain in mental reality. The ship itself felt real enough—it was, after all, real—even as it had emerged out of thin air. It rocked gently on soft waves, the washing sound of saltwater on the wood and rocks behind them becoming a heartbeat under the stars. They climbed up the connecting plank, Donghyuck still a crutch to Mark’s efforts, and by the time they were properly aboard, silence among them had been firmly established.

Mark’s breath was rancid against Donghyuck’s cheek, and his stomach rolled like the ship on the waters, but not because he couldn’t handle the smell. He couldn’t handle the implications. Mark’s body was hot in his grip but he’d started shivering uncontrollably when the sea air had hit them. He didn’t move right, and he opened his eyes for only short periods of time, grip squeezing Donghyuck’s arm. Sometimes, Mark would give a minuscule jerk, a hitch of breath at something Donghyuck couldn’t see. He forced himself to breathe.

Jaemin and Jeno were knocking shoulders to the whispering rock of the ship, Jaemin’s wrist swollen and red like it had shattered from the inside. Maybe it had.

Normally, returns were a healthy amount of boisterous with some generous nagging. Yuta, however, was their greeting, and he looked pale, almost green, and because he was in the front and facing away, he could afford not to smile.

If it weren’t for Mark’s breath, Donghyuck would have made an effort to crack a joke, but his stomach was pitching and his hands felt cold.

* * *

The ship itself was a mix of dark and silver accents, branches and shrubbery, weeds and closed flowers clustered in piles of earth that were an organic part of the ship’s makeup. The railings were bolstered by rosemary, the mast spun with curious ivy. The wood was alive and calm beneath their worn-out all-stars, vans, old shoes that still remained because of the rubber. Mark’s feet were bare. If Donghyuck thought it would hurt less to carry him on his back, he would have, but something about the way Mark held himself suggested his ribs were broken or something was wrong in his torso.

The lights flickered on, warm, never very strong. They were used to low light by now, especially with the sky spilling silver and lighting everything up halfway anyway. As it was, the low, warm glow of the lights strengthened gently with each roll of the tide. It had always reminded Jaemin of the sleeping lights of the technology in their sitting room where he’d sometimes fallen asleep. He’d wake up to the dozing pulse of a green light that felt too bright, and it kept him from falling back to unconsciousness until he covered it up.

But these lights were warm, held up by wood stakes with veins of metal that allowed the light to exist. Somehow.

At either end of the deck were doors, the left one wide open with a much stronger exhale of light. Among the smells of deep earth and salt, there was a tickling smell of food.

The moment Mark stepped into the dining area with the oranges and browns of the room swimming in his eyes, Yuta had to step out and away. And Taeyong was witness to it. 

Taeyong stood at the table, a long thing to accommodate all sixteen crew members if necessary, and at the end nearest to them was a small layout of kimbap and ramyun. Six kimbap rolls and a metal pot sitting on a hot pad. He was the only one in the room, and the room itself was a little cramped with wooden cabinetry, sixteen chairs, and two open doors to separate areas. 

It seemed to the entering group that for a moment, Taeyong was functionally frozen, eyes rooted to Yuta’s retreat. Yuta, however, had entirely left the vicinity, vanishing like the stars in daylight. It wasn’t until Taeyong’s eyes settled on the group—one, two, three, four, five, then… Mark—that things clicked.

Taeyong breathed out, gave a wan smile, and then made his rounds through them. “Dig in. Jisung-ah, Chenle already went to bed. If you’re tired—”

Jisung shook his head, ducking it to receive the gentle touch to his nape from Taeyong’s fingers. “I’ll eat and then sleep.”

Taeyong only nodded and continued, checking over them with soft touches as Jisung slumped into one of the dining chairs. 

“Sicheng’ll take care of you first,” Taeyong said to Jaemin. He started to worry his bottom lip between his teeth for just a moment before he pushed himself onward. He ended up giving a full hug to Renjun as Jaemin slipped out of the room, Jeno tagging almost instinctively along like he was the younger of the two. He wasn’t. 

Finally, Taeyong let himself look at Mark, who was still being supported, if subtly, by Donghyuck. Gently, he extracted himself from Renjun, said something that was inaudible to everyone but him, and then nudged him toward the food table. Not one to be a stranger, Renjun sat next to Jisung and reached for his hand.

Taeyong turned to face Donghyuck and Mark fully, opened his mouth, then pushed out the tiniest breath before sucking in a new one. “I’m Taeyong.”

“He’s our captain,” supplied Donghyuck.

“I’m not.”

It always went like this.

It went like this with every new addition, and Donghyuck wasn’t going to let Mark be traded to any other crew.

Taeyong, as dark and intimidating as he could look, was really just absolutely not that. It was the eyebrows—his eyebrows made him look like someone who could be ruthless. Right now, though, his eyes were big with worry and more than made up for his eyebrows.

“I’m really not the captain, though I do my best.” Taeyong blinked, stress momentarily creating a crease between his eyebrows, then continued. “We have food if you want it. Or Sicheng can try to heal some of your injuries. Or you can wash up, or sleep. Anything you need.”

There was a heavy pause, and then Mark shrunk into Donghyuck, hands clenching at his shirt.

The muscles in Taeyong’s throat seized. “Oh.” He took a step away and accidentally nudged one of the chairs with the small of his back. “I’m sorry.” He looked at Donghyuck, and exhaled, and swallowed, and his eyes were helpless. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you—” Words stalled between them both, because Donghyuck knew the starts of panic when he saw them. 

There was a history—a bad one—of Bait on their crew. Taeyong was never a victim as far as Donghyuck knew, but the effects were still bad. Regardless of whether Taeyong admitted it or not, he was their captain. And he’d seen it all.

So Donghyuck only nodded, a silent communication that he could handle things, and let him leave. He watched his captain start to tug at his hair, knuckles white, as he moved away and out onto the deck from the enclosed dining room. His stomach sank.

“We’re going to sit down, okay?”

Mark didn’t respond, but he moved when Donghyuck moved, and allowed himself to be led to a chair. Donghyuck didn’t let himself dwell. Would not let himself dwell. He pulled the kimbap and ramyun toward himself before flicking his eyes to Jisung, who hadn’t moved since he’d sat down. Renjun still held his hand, but lifted his eyes in silent admittance.

“Jisung,” Donghyuck said, letting his voice be pointed. “Just go be with Chenle. He probably stayed up anyway.”

Like his words were a string leading a puppet to action, Jisung stood up. He was taller than most of them now, even at fifteen, but he looked particularly young in that moment. His hands, no longer limp or held by Renjun, were still trembling. Since they’d gotten back on the ship, he hadn’t made eye contact with anyone, his hair obscuring what it could of his expression.

Donghyuck and Renjun tracked Jisung as he left.

The mission had gone so badly. 

But at least they had Mark.

“We’re going to eat, okay Mark? We’re great cooks and you look like you’ve lived off only two grains of rice for weeks.” Because Donghyuck was trying, his voice didn’t betray a single note of strain. Mark remained unresponsive, but Donghyuck was not going to let the pit in his stomach overwhelm him.As if the invitation to eat had been aimed at more than just Mark, Renjun reached out for a kimbap as well and took a bite out of it, breath shucking out of his lungs and through the mouthful like tears were an option he was very much considering. 

Donghyuck didn’t dwell on Renjun for long, pressing forward. “You’re not going to live like that, anymore, Mark,” he said, and tried his very best to ignore the tears dripping from Mark’s hung head. Donghyuck didn’t mind if everyone cried, but someone had to stay firm. He was going to be that person tonight.

It had gone badly, but at least it was over. They’d get through this.

* * *

 “What’d you go and get hurt for?”

Jaemin sent Taeil an impatient look, perched on the edge of Sicheng’s bed with his good hand pressed between his knees. Taeil only grinned, he himself perched on the desk on the other side of the room where Sicheng’s books and papers were stacked. Sicheng seemed to be picking his battles at the moment, choosing to ignore Taeil’s disrespect entirely. Instead, he rested Jaemin’s wrist in his palms with his brows pinched.

Sicheng looked up, requesting Jaemin’s attention. “Usually it’s not this bad.”

With the mindfulness to look subdued, Jaemin could only agree. “Well I’ve never tried to stop a bullet before.”

“You’re kidding!” Taeil leaned forward, lips parted, then gestured to Jaemin’s injury. “I mean that means you were successful, right?”

The bed creaked, then, as Jeno, silent and placid prior, moved and touched his hand to the small of Jaemin’s waist, initiating a sort of soft side-hug. Sicheng’s lips pinched, knowing, as he glanced at Jeno.

Jaemin breathed out. “Yeah.”

“You’ve gotten faster, then,” Taeil added.

“Adrenaline—” Jaemin admitted before Sicheng interrupted.

“Your wrist almost shattered.”

What subdued expression Jaemin had had turned downright cowed. Sicheng twisted in his chair and locked eyes with Taeil. “He shouldn’t have to be fast, hyung.” The added bit of formality only served to give more bite, and Taeil grimaced.

The ship creaked.

“I was reckless,” said Jeno, finally, grip tightening on Jaemin’s waist, and Jaemin almost wished he would hook his chin over his shoulder like he did sometimes.

Sicheng gave a long-suffering blink, just short of an eye-roll. “Clearly.” Gently, he returned Jaemin’s wrist to his lap and stood up. “Get off my desk.”

Without protest, Taeil hopped off and joined his dongsaengs on the bed, pulling Sicheng’s pillow into his arms. As Sicheng picked through his papers, Taeil leaned in to Jaemin. “He’s not mad at you.”

Jaemin only nodded, then offered his wrist up again when Sicheng sat back down in his chair. More than anything, it looked like he had taken the time at his desk to abandon all emotion, though Jeno was sure emotion didn’t interfere with his Chaos.

As if he had heard Jaemin’s earlier thoughts, Jeno settled closer, chin over Jaemin’s shoulder as Sicheng focused in. His long fingers barely appeared to touch Jaemin’s skin, and even after a year of bruises and sprains, they still found the expectation of something big—something special—disappointed.

Instead, Jaemin only eased back in Jeno’s grip and let his eyes flutter closed, eyelashes long and dark against the pallor of pain in his skin.

“There was a Bait,” Jaemin said, just as they were all settling in to Sicheng’s process. Sicheng’s fingers flinched, fingertips pinching into Jaemin’s skin. Jaemin swallowed a hiccup of pain, just barely aborting a recoil.

“I’m sorry—” Sicheng started, his warm skin blanching within moments. Taeil’s arms choked his pillow as if it might fill the hole his stomach left behind after suddenly dropping.

Jaemin had to breathe and settle, but calmed quickly, squeezing his eyes closed. “So Jeno jumped in,” he continued. “His name is Mark.”

Sicheng blinked a few times, breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. “Is Yuta…?” He directed the fragment of a question to Taeil, and the eldest let go of the pillow and stood up.

“I’ll make sure.” He settled the pillow neatly against the headboard, and when he reached to rustle his fingers through Sicheng’s hair, Sicheng didn’t dodge.

As the door closed behind Taeil, Sicheng let out a long exhale as if to immediately push away the topic by his breath alone, then redoubled his attentions on Jaemin’s wrist. His hair remained in disarray, the only thing in a mess that was endearingly so, for the atmosphere ached and pulled and dragged. Only the physical issues were ones that could be healed. The pain and swelling in Jaemin softened and shifted, running and trickling out of his wrist until it felt as if everything hard and angry in there was turned to mist.

“It’s not all better,” Sicheng said, as he always did, and Jaemin had to pull himself back into full consciousness, the room having started to fade into a blurry, earthen brown. Jeno eased Jaemin out of his arms as Sicheng began to wrap Jaemin’s wrist for support. “I want to see you every morning and evening. And if it ever feels pain.” 

Jaemin’s nod was slow, sleepy, and if Sicheng ended up letting his dongsaengs drift off in his own bed while he slipped out to find Yuta? Well. It would be rude to call him inconsiderate at that point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡
> 
> I'm so grateful for the good reception this is getting—it makes me unspeakably happy.


	5. Eyes Closed

** (Interlude **

_“. . . things that change do not change unless there be movement.”_ \- Hippolytus

 

They burst through the doors to the sound of brass and the animated fuss of hundreds upon hundreds of people. Kun was trying to secure his gloves in his back pockets, following as Ten shoved and weaved. Diminutive as Ten seemed, he was still substantial, and people gave with startled grumbles but admittance as Kun apologized in his wake. They were moving too fast, too hurriedly, for his apologies be heard, but the effort was there even as the hue and cry of their pursuit stalked them.

A swell of merriment colored the air as horns grew louder, as a giant float of _Anpanman_ billowed, as Ten tried to find a way through and out of this mess. Ten’s cheekbone was still red from where he’d been clipped by the ELE, his gloves abandoned and shoved in the same pouch that held the USB they’d loaded.

They couldn’t afford to look back, but Kun did anyway, searching for the black uniforms and vests and livid black gazes. It was nearly impossible to parse one member of the crowd from the ELE, but there was movement—pushing in the same way they pushed—that suggested they were still being followed.

“Ten, we have to—”

As if Ten could possibly hear him above the noise, he suddenly switched directions, yanking Kun sideways by the elbow and weaving lower, making himself smaller and forcing Kun to compact himself as well. Below heads, Kun could hear Ten speak. “Were they wearing a tracker?”

“I don’t know!”

Neither of them knew, which meant it was safer not to activate anything at all and also to desperately hope there weren’t any Seeds about. Realized Witches among other realized Witches didn’t cause any problems, but Witches who didn’t know yet? That’s how Bait worked, and the two of them hardly wanted to make the ELE’s job easier. A realized, activated Witch moving about would naturally activate the chaos of a Seed—someone who was a Witch but didn’t know it yet. It was undoubtedly meant to help them find one another, gather, take care of the kids who didn’t know who or what they were yet.

But now wasn’t the time.

So they hoped at the backs of their minds and continued to push under and out of the crowd until the brass bands were much louder, having less and less bodies to muffle the noise or yell through it. Ten still gripped Kun’s elbow, but Kun kept pace.

Ten was already pulling out his phone and tapping in a messy address to _naver_ , which meant Kun was the one pulling him, now, making sure he didn’t stumble. Kun doubled back just slightly, then led Ten into a indie clothing shop. It smelled like incense and wood.

He pulled two different jackets off their hangers, hardly looking at whatever niche script they sported, and fumbled for his wallet, slipping to the cash register just before another customer approached.

“Just these two?”

He was hardly listening, but smiled at the cashier and passed over his card, trying not to fidget, trying not to watch the windows as Ten backed into a corner and texted the girls’ crew. Signing the receipt with a jerky motion, he collected the thin jackets with a thank you, not shaking out of sheer adrenaline steadiness, and handed one off to Ten.

“Purple’s not my color,” Ten murmured, just a passing thought, an instinct to tease not quite impaired by the situation enough. Perhaps it wasn’t his color, but really—“They said they’ll be ready.” Ten was practically throwing on the offending jacket, zipping it up without another witty jab. “Let’s go.”

Kun threw his hood up, only barely registering the fact that Ten’s jacket said _WANT A PIECE OF THIS?_ without choking out a laugh, and followed out of the store the illustration of a pizza on a backdrop of dark purple.

** End) **

 

 

_“. . . the material elements [are] four in number, fire, air, water, and earth, all eternal, but changing in bulk and scarcity through mixture and separation; but [the] real first principles, which impart motion to these, are Love and Strife. The elements are continually subject to an alternate change, at one time mixed together by Love, at another separated by Strife . . .”_ \- Simplicus

 

Jisung approached so quietly that Chenle didn’t know he’d entered the room until the mattress sank. Plucking out his earbuds, he turned and took in the hunched form of his best friend.

He was supposed to have gone to bed at least an hour ago, but no one had heckled him about it, and so he had sat on his bed listening to music and reading articles about whales and microfractures. The hour had started with him searching a parade recording for Kun and Ten, but that had gone nowhere, and the least he could do was read the materials Sicheng had sent him.

But now Jisung was back, and Chenle put his phone and cords away into the bedside drawer. Because Jisung had said nothing, Chenle didn’t say anything either—only moved to the same side of the bed and sat beside him, peering beyond Jisung’s fringe.

“It’s nothing like the movies,” Jisung croaked.

Chenle’s knee-jerk reaction was to laugh, but he swallowed it down as his heart twinged. “Is everyone okay?”

His question floated for longer than Chenle knew what to do with, so he took Jisung’s hand and squeezed, the action only ushering in a hiccup from Jisung. His friend curled forward with the quietest noise of—of… It had to be pain, but Chenle hadn’t ever heard something like it from Jisung before.

Alarmed, he repeated, “Is everyone okay, Jisungie?” 

Jisung’s rapid nod, then head shake was a bit too much to unpack, but he swallowed down his panic and moved. “Get in bed. C’mon.” He pulled down the covers—it wasn’t Jisung’s bed, but they didn’t always follow arbitrary rules. Especially not when Jisung’s hands were shaking so bad they weren’t even properly covering his face or catching his tears.

He had to shove Jisung around to get him to lie down, leaning over to untie his shoes for him, pulling them off and tossing the covers over his shoulders as he tucked down next to him. Jisung’s hands still shook, but less now that his elbows rested on the mattress. Even so, Chenle took them both and knocked foreheads with him, making his breaths louder. Loud breath in, loud breath out, loud breath in, out, in, out, and eventually Jisung was swallowing between copying his pattern.

Chenle reformed his question. “Is everyone safe?”

Jisung swallowed again, and Chenle wished he could pull a cup of water out of thin air. “Yes.”

Biting down on any tells of relief, Chenle nodded slowly instead, hair rubbing against the pillow. “Okay. What went wrong?”

With more patience this time, the seconds after the question were fine. He just retrieved a hand to brush away some of the tears. It felt strange, cocooned like this and wiping away Jisung’s tears. He hadn’t expected anything like this, nor had he foreseen that he’d have to do this ever for his best friend. It was strange, but he could do. Was doing it.

“We got cornered and. Jeno jumped in. I think Jaemin broke his wrist. I—messed up. I messed up. Lele, I—I messed up so bad.” Whatever peace they’d achieved dissolved into renewed hysterics, and all Chenle could think to do was to move and hug Jisung’s head to his chest. He’d seen Dongyoung do it to Taeyong. He hadn’t been meant to see, but he had, and if he wanted Jisung closer to his heart, that was okay.

Chenle repeated the same thing until it got through to him. _Everyone’s safe, though. You got out. Everyone’s safe._

He didn’t wish he had gone with them—not anymore—but it hurt like this.

* * *

 The ocean smoothed her hands against the hull, the leaves from errant trees breathing slowly with sleep. If Yuta looked closely, he could imagine the shapes of fish in the water below. If he closed his eyes, he could see them better, but his imagination was far too aggressive, far too crippled to make it feel peaceful. So his eyes dried themselves with the sea air until he had to blink along with the shivers his body demanded.

“Yuta.” It didn’t sound pretty. His name sounded tight in Taeyong’s throat, but his shoulder was familiar in its boniness as he settled there, and that was fine. “You’re cold.”

There was nothing Taeyong could do about it. He was wearing a sweater, and couldn’t exactly go shirtless to accommodate Yuta’s sense of mild reckless abandon.

“Where did your jacket go?”

Yuta reached for Taeyong’s hand—the one that was up to his mouth and gnawing at his nails. He had been able to feel his jaw moving against his hair. “I don’t remember.”

“Yuta…”

“I’m having a bad time.”

Taeyong’s breath hitched. “I’m sorry.”

His nagging wasn’t unwelcome, but it felt superficial, and nothing felt very real. Except maybe the cold of Taeyong’s fingers and the boniness of his shoulder.

The ship creaked, but her voice was familiar, and it had been a long time since it had been unnerving.

“Mark’s safe, now, Yukkuri.” Taeyong shifted, reaching to place his hand on the side of Yuta’s head, cradling him even in a position like this.

Yuta tried to work around the pain in his throat. “I know.”

“We’ll take care of him just like we did with you.”

“I know.”

“Can you sing for me?”

Yuta’s laugh was breathy, unsteady coming out of his chest, but he obliged. It was the same Japanese lullaby he used to hear on repeat in his head. It had been as much of a companion as the straitjacket had been, but he was at peace with the lullaby.

By the time Taeil arrived, Yuta was numb. He didn’t reject Taeil pulling him in, chest to his back, nose to his hair as Taeyong left to find a jacket or blanket—whichever cropped up first.

Taeil let them sit in silence, but eventually Yuta registered his voice. “Are you seeing anything?”

“None of it is real.”

Taeil hummed, always lyrical, always warm even though he could seem so far away, arms tightening around Yuta’s waist. “We are.”

Whatever ache had been in his throat before returned again. “I know.”

“Do you want to look at me?”

It wasn’t a direction. Only an offer, only a thought, and Yuta really didn’t have to be scared. It had been a long, long time since he’d become accustomed to his brothers’ real faces. It had been even longer since he’d hallucinated different ones. So he twisted in Taeil’s grip and made eye contact. Taeil’s eyes were very dark, hair cropped above his eyebrows as always, and his smile was small. “Do you see me?”

Yuta inhaled to answer that _yes. Yes, of course._ But over Taeil’s shoulder, Taeyong was approaching with Sicheng in pace, and Sicheng sported a deep rivet between his eyebrows, but Taeyong held a big jacket. Only Youngho and Yoonoh were missing from the family that had first gathered up his pieces and stitched him together. Sicheng settled next to them, the toes of his shoes touching Taeil’s thigh, and Taeyong offered up the jacket. It smelled a lot like Youngho.

Yuta dragged in a breath and smiled for the first time in at least an hour, and Sicheng returned it with nervous concern, and Taeyong squeezed Yuta’s knee. Taeil was still steady against his back.

“How are you doing?” Taeyong asked.

He managed a laugh. “Better.”

* * *

 It was some time before the four of them were disturbed, huddled closer over time from the wind. Sicheng always took longer, having to decide how he wanted to approach a physically intimate situation before he succumbed to it, but he’d sprawled on his back and settled his cheek on Taeil’s thigh for some time now. He’d allowed Yuta to card his fingers through his hair. Taeyong was tucked into Taeil and Yuta simultaneously, his breath shallow and soft, already asleep.

Sicheng noticed them first, Donghyuck approaching with soft steps. There was a sort of regretful caution in his eyes, but Sicheng sat up anyway because he could see the stranger leaning against one of the upper railings behind Donghyuck.

Even from the edge of the ship, Mark looked like death.

“I’m sorry—”

Sicheng was quick to respond, not wanting to wake Taeyong nor disturb too harshly the equilibrium the four of them had maintained. “It’s fine.”

Donghyuck spoke almost as softly as his approach had been, even softer as Sicheng got closer. “I think his ribs are broken, or something.”

A pang of unhappiness settled in Sicheng’s chest. “Okay.” He looked back for Taeil, who only nodded and gently nudged Yuta and Taeyong—hopefully to take them to bed. Sicheng relaxed, but not by much. “Is he okay if I touch?”

“He’s let me.”

“Okay.”

They crossed over the deck, Sicheng taking the steps up to Mark slowly. One thing he’d learned was that sudden approaches to a Bait was just… bad. For everyone all around.

“Mark?” Sicheng attempted, and the Bait’s eyes flicked open, dark and wide and full of things Sicheng didn’t like to see. “Hello, Mark.” Still slowly, he held out his hands. “My name is Sicheng. Would you like to touch me? I’m real, and you can check.”

Mark’s fingers were unnaturally bony, still peeking out from the straightjacket, but his wrists were even more frail. His touch was cold and hard, his hands gripping rather than just touching. It was almost hard enough to make Sicheng wince.

“See?”

The word prompted Mark to close his eyes again. “I don’t know.”

Baby steps. Mark held Sicheng’s forearm in a vice. “That’s okay. Do you trust me to try to heal you?”

“I don’t—know.”

That was okay, too. 

Donghyuck spoke up. “It’ll make things less painful. It won’t hurt.” Donghyuck’s eyes were big, taking in the interaction Sicheng had mapped out. He didn’t know—of course he didn’t—how to interact with a Bait. Sicheng hardly did, but he had one experience more than Donghyuck, and he supposed that made a difference.

“You’ll learn what things are real again, Mark.” Very carefully, he pried Mark’s fingers off and slid his hand down to grasp his fingers instead. “I promise.”

Such severe sensory deprivation did terrifying things to the mind. Sicheng had done some research in the beginning, prompted by Yuta flinching at absolutely nothing for so long it had started freaking him out.

Sicheng took a steadying breath. Sometimes, words were still hard for him, though he’d been speaking Korean for so long now that whatever set him apart was difficult to parse these days. “I know it’s hard, Mark, but try to keep your eyes open. We will confirm if something is real.” Both Donghyuck and he waited, watched as Mark stood perfectly still.

Mark opened his eyes, and then his gaze drifted to over Sicheng’s shoulder. “There’s a spider—” 

Sicheng clamped down hard on the urge to cringe, only turning to check, then saying, quickly. “There’s no spider.”

Swallowing, Mark’s grip pulsed painfully around Sicheng’s fingers. “Okay.”

“Let’s go inside.”

Mark swallowed again and took a hesitant step forward. “Okay.”

* * *

 According to Sicheng’s suggestion, Donghyuck described the room for the first few minutes after sitting down. They’d occupied the dining room, which Mark had already seen. Apparently Renjun had been there, Donghyuck not missing a beat to include that detail, but he’d gone to bed.

“We have sixteen chairs, but we’ll have to get another one for you, now. Do you see sixteen?”

Sicheng observed Mark counting, his gaze flicking from one chair to the next.

“Yes.”

“And a long table. Some cabinets. Hyung is leaning against the table. I’m sitting in front of you. There’s no one else in the room. Do you see anyone else?”

For a brief, almost imperceptible moment, panic flashed in Mark’s eyes and he closed them, breathing. Breathing. “There’s someone behind me. I can feel them.”

“There’s no one behind you,” Sicheng said immediately, “There’s no one but Donghyuckie and me and you. You’re sitting down. The chair might feel like a person, but it’s just a chair.”

Mark nodded, the movement aching. 

“They can’t hurt you. They’re not real.”

Mark inhaled through his nose, then opened his eyes.

“Ignore them,” Donghyuck suggested. “Maybe they’ll go away.”

Blinking rapidly, Mark swallowed, and Sicheng thought that perhaps there must be an ache in his throat—purely emotional. The boy was clearly trying. “I don’t know.”

As slowly as Sicheng had been earlier, Donghyuck offered his hands, and much gentler than with Sicheng, Mark took them.

Seconds passed in silence and Sicheng traced the bruises and rashes on Mark’s skin with his eyes.

“Can I try healing you, now, Mark?”

Mark’s gaze swapped from Donghyuck to Sicheng and his dark eyes bore into him. Sicheng took it. Had to take it, though sometimes eye contact was hard, too.

“It won’t hurt?”

“I’ve been told it feels good.”

Mark nodded, then, and Sicheng tore his gaze away once he saw tears well up in the boy’s eyes. That? That was too much for him to handle at the moment.

He drew his chair closer instead and reached for Mark’s face. “I’m going to start here. You have injuries around your mouth. Can I do that?”

Mark nodded, and the soft, uninjured skin of his face brushed against the calluses of Sicheng’s fingers. So he started with his face, and down his neck, and to his bruised but not broken ribs because at least the ELE tried to keep their tools functioning, and by the time he’d reached his knees, Mark’s eyes were closed for good—at least for a few hours. As far as Sicheng knew, his Chaos didn’t put people to sleep, but the reduction of pain and the release of no longer having to guard against it must have been enough.

“I’ve got him,” Donghyuck said, and Sicheng nodded. 

The healer was drained—needed sleep as badly as some of the kids on the ship. He dragged himself to his feet. 

“Thank you,” Donghyuck added.

“For what?” It came off a bit sharp, so he consciously softened. “It’s for me, too.”

Mark must have been light as a feather, because even Donghyuck could gather him with relative ease. It was only lankiness that was the problem. “Right. Sorry, hyung.”

“It’s fine.” And it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not obvious, Ten and Kun are a part of Taeyong's crew (even if he says he's not the captain). WayV will not be separate from the rest of NCT in this fic, even though I tagged both.
> 
> I believe this is my favorite chapter I've written so far, and I'm nine chapters in.
> 
> I'm on break right now, but I'll try to get chapter nine done and ten started so I can update again at the end of this week. 
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys as much as I did ♡


	6. Names

**(Memory **

_“No object comes-to-be or passes away, but is mixed or separated from existing objects.”_ \- Anaxagoras

 

_‘I’m not comfortable with you going alone.’_

_‘So you’ve said.’_

_‘Take me with you. Take Sicheng. Jungwoo. Yuta. Anyone.’_

_‘Two of us are already on a mission and the kids are set to infiltrate the construction company. With me leaving, it’ll be eight gone.’_

_‘And seven of us still here.’_

_‘TY, I’ll be back before you know it. We’ve talked about this.’_

_‘We go in pairs! You’re going to get caught and no one will be there to—’_

_‘TY? TY. Taeyong. I’m leaving to pick someone up. I’ll be alone for a day, max, maybe.’_

_‘We don’t know what their chaos is or if they’re being watched or_ anything _!’_

_‘Do you really want to worry about me and another person, too?’_

_‘That’s unfair. You’re being unfair. It’s safer to go with someone else. It just is. I don’t know why you want to do things on your own. You don’t have to prove anything. Do you want to test yourself? Show that you’re cool enough to do something on your own?’_

_‘No one else is stopping me. And I have to go soon. I’ll be careful, I promise. It’s faster like this and simpler and easier. That’s all, Tyeong. Please try not to worry so much. It won’t help anything.’_

_‘I hope you get hurt.’_

_‘You don’t mean that. And you’ll regret saying it later. C’mere. I’ll be fine.’_

_‘You don’t know that.’_

_‘We don’t know if I’d be any safer with someone else coming with me, either. Twice the eyes but twice the possibility for mistakes. This one’s easy. Please let me go.’_

_‘If you get caught—’_

_‘I can’t and won’t promise that, but I’ll try my best.’_

**End)**

 

 

_“Of the infinite there is no beginning . . . but this seems to be the beginning of the other things, and to surround all things and steer all, as all those say who do not postulate other causes, such as mind or love, above and beyond the infinite. And this is divine; for it is immortal and indestructible . . .”_ \- Aristotle

 

Chenle woke to a gentle shake to his shoulder.

“Don’t,” he murmured. He was warm, and he knew Jisung was curled up against his chest, much smaller than he truly was, and he didn’t want to be woken up yet.

“Breakfast is ready, though.” Yoonoh’s voice was forgiving, fingertips soft against the hair he brushed away from Chenle’s forehead.

With reluctance, Chenle squinted against the light of the morning and twisted out of Jisung’s grip. Jisung’s nose scrunched from the disturbance, and Yoonoh stood in the way of the port window, untidy bedhead haloed in white.

“Did you hear…?” Chenle said, voice too tired to be anything above a mumble.

“Winwin filled me in,” Yoonoh replied, running a hand through his hair, Sicheng’s nickname still sweet even encased in his own weariness. 

He registered the reluctant glance Chenle cast toward Jisung. “I know,” said Yoonoh, “but this kind of thing is better not alone. And he needs to eat. Renjun said he didn’t.”

Chenle pursed his mouth, then curled back into Jisung to shake him awake. “C’mon, Jisungie. Rise and shine.”

Peacefully watching until Jisung gave a whine of regret, Yoonoh circled around to the other side of Chenle’s bed and stuck his hands under the lanky youngest. With a swooping lift, Jisung was elevated and in his hyung’s arms, though he’d sunk his claws into the bedsheets. Chenle sat up and watched, scrubbing at his eyes. When Yoonoh plopped Jisung on his feet, it was as if there was bipedal fawn in the shared bedroom.

Jisung’s eyes were puffy, legs still asleep, hair sticking up on one side, and Chenle couldn’t help but laugh as Jisung whined.

“Breakfast, Jisungie,” Yoonoh supplied in defense.

“No.”

“Absolutely. Such a bummer that we have to eat to live, right?” Yoonoh’s smile flashed his dimples, and Chenle was grateful it was Yoonoh who came to wake them. It might have been difficult for anyone else to pull out a shy responding smile from Jisung—it was hard to resist their hyung’s charm, and even harder to rationalize why anyone might want to try.

So Jisung sank into Yoonoh’s arms and agreed to breakfast because even though his eyes and body were tired from strife, Yoonoh promised family.

* * *

Breakfasts were communal, though not always complete. They were missing threeof the regular crew, not that Taeyong was making it any less obvious by chewing his nails to the bit. Two more were absent, but only very temporarily, set to eat once they returned. A pair of bowls covered by lids were evidence of that.

Yuta prodded Taeyong’s hand away from his mouth just as Yoonoh and the two youngest padded in. Jisung took maybe a heartbeat of hesitation before sitting down right next to Mark, keeping his eyes down. Chenle placed himself quietly in the seat next to Jisung, but unlike the youngest, let himself stare unabashedly at the stranger.

Chenle had not been told who or what Mark was—no one had gone out of their way to inform him between the return and unconsciousness—but there was a certain aura of injury and caution swirling about in the air that he could pick up on despite his ignorance, and Chenle was a smart boy.

Having seen Sicheng twice, now, Mark’s bruises were a sick yellow color, and the skin around his mouth was a shiny, angry pink, but certainly no longer blistered or weeping. His hair, too, was clean—a fluffy, natural black—though still quite long. 

Injury and caution aside, Chenle wasn’t a coward, so he leaned over Jisung, hand on the youngest’s thigh, and extended his hand.

“I’m Chenle.”

Mark looked startled, first and foremost. Any impression Chenle might have of his face full-onwas drowned out by big, haunted eyes. Chenle shied away almost imperceptibly, but kept his hand steady. He kept his hand there for a good two seconds, actually, watching as outright terror bled into the Bait’s eyes. Mark’s gaze flicked over to Sicheng, who sat watching opposite.

“Chenle’s real.”

Mark’s hand jumped up immediately and almost urgently then to shake Chenle’s, fingers wiry, grip painfully strong in his baffling earnestness. Chenle didn’t know why his quality of being had to be affirmed, but Sicheng didn’t say unnecessary things, so he took it in stride.

“My name is Mark.” For some reason—maybe it was the discord between the severe, malnourished lines of his face and the youth that was hidden in and around his eyes—Mark’s voice was nothing like Chenle expected. He blinked, and Mark blinked back with something like caution and burning hope, and Yuta, out of nowhere, started to laugh.

Its suddenness made both boys startle, but while Chenle joined in on instinct, Mark’s throat seized in confusion, his hand retreating back to his person.

“Markie-yah, you’re adorable,” Yuta said, true warmth in his eyes and smile as his chin sat propped in his hands. Taeyong, previously back to a state of paralysis of simply watching the scene play out, gave an almost-wheeze of relief and launched himself into a tizzy of dishing out breakfast.

In the midst, Donghyuck, sitting on the other side of Mark, could be heard saying, “You just met the only person who bites on this ship.” Which wasn’t strictly true, but—“You don’t have to be afraid of anyone else you meet. They’re all tame in comparison.”

Donghyuck still hadn’t made Mark smile, dead set as he was on achieving it, but Mark’s spoon didn’t tremble when he started in on his bibimbap, and that was pretty good.

* * *

Youngho and Jungwoo showed up later, fresh from the farmer’s market to restock. They towed paper bags of produce the ship couldn’t supply, and if they were walking on eggshells like the rest of them seemed to be doing, they didn’t show it.

Taeyong had invited Mark to help in the kitchen, which was a new room to him, but lacked distinctly in any intimidation factor. Taeyong had seen to putting the knives away and declaring that he had, which was rather excessive, perhaps, but kind.

The room itself was bright with sunlight even as herbs grew around and crowded the windows. Donghyuck had taken to showing Mark the details, including the trap door underneath the rug that housed all the harvested root vegetables that weren’t allowed to see the light of day.

“The ship can grow a lot of things, but we’re a big group,” he had said, and that had prompted the release of the question that had been sitting on Mark’s tongue since Youngho and Jungwoo had returned.

For perhaps the first time, Mark spoke without prompting. “Why are there so many of you?”

Without missing a beat, Donghyuck said, “Because Taeyong-hyung can’t say no.”

Taeyong looked pained—either because he’d been called out and it was true, or he was in the death throes of denial. “Lots of crews are big, Hyuckie…”

“Are there a lot of crews?”

If either of them were surprised at receiving two unprompted questions from Mark, they didn’t show it.

Taeyong took a breath. “We know of a few.” He hefted a sack of rice and placed it next to the other, near-empty one in the corner of the kitchen. “There’s a girl’s crew that’s nearly as big as us that two of our members are with right now. It’s not like we’re gendered, or anything, by the way, we’re just—”

“It tends to be more comfortable.”

Mark tensed at the voice coming up right behind him, and Donghyuck decided to laugh. It was better to laugh—coddling Mark couldn’t be more helpful than letting him feel things weren’t so serious all the time.

Youngho winced, though, coming into the room fully. “Sorry, Mark. I wasn’t thinking. It’s just me.”

Despite being kind of overwhelmingly tall at first sight, there was something very familiar and relaxed about Youngho in general. Donghyuck had informed Mark that he was one of the first members—not quite an original, but close enough—and that he was, in fact, a very patient and relaxed person.

Some tension eased out of Mark’s shoulders, eyes following a trade-off of radish from Youngho to Taeyong. “Girls are great,” Youngho continued, “but they like to stick together for, I think, obvious reasons.” He smiled at Mark. “We’re all still human, you know? If a girl wanted to join our crew, I don’t think any of us would be uncomfortable, but it kind of just happened this way.”

To be frank, it hadn’t really occurred to Mark that the separation needed an explanation, but his mind was cluttered enough that he wasn’t sure if it would have occurred to him before his captivity.

Youngho turned fully to Taeyong, then. “Has anyone looked at the maps yet?”

Taeyong stopped in the middle of lifting the rug for the radishes, passing a palm over his own face and rubbing at one of his eyes. “I haven’t. Taeil might be, but I—”

“It’s good, TY,” Youngho interrupted, and leaned to pat Taeyong’s shoulder. “Take a break from being captain for once. Cuddle Haechan or Yuta. Everyone will be back before you know it.”

Taeyong, standing now, wilted under what could only be a kind smile from Youngho, a sort of pout peeking out as Youngho left the kitchen as calmly as he had come. Taeyong’s eyes followed his back, pout residing and only a little of the reintroduced tension lured out of his posture.

“Who’s Haechan?” Mark asked in the residue silence. Taeyong rested his back against the counter, soaking in the sunlight, and his pout turned into a smile.

“It’s me!” Donghyuck set a carton of eggs down on the wood counter and beamed. “Full Sun.” In a move that was indisputably… _cute_ , Donghyuck cupped his own face in his hands, framing it like a flower.

Head tilted and eyes bright again, Taeyong’s gaze was impossibly fond as he looked at Donghyuck. “All of us have names we’ve given ourselves or given each other,” Taeyong said in way of explanation. “It helps. The whole world calls us Witches, which is fine. Or Pirates, which is fine, too. Other people call us Eco Terrorists, which is where the ELE comes in. But as Youngho said, we’re still human.” 

Like a puppy, Donghyuck moved over to Taeyong, stepping over some of the vegetables and fruits they hadn’t yet put away, and cuddled up to him. It elicited a tiny, breathy laugh from Taeyong, who closed his eyes, and for a moment, Mark ached. 

“So while I’m still Taeyong and Donghyuckie is still Donghyuck, we decided to give ourselves names just like the world has.” Taeyong’s somewhat knobby fingers threaded through Donghyuck’s waves. “It’s funny and makes us feel closer. We try to be family.”

Taeyong opened his eyes again and withdrew from Donghyuck to ruffle his hair with both hands. It stuck up and settled slowly like chick feathers. He gave the same breathy laugh before turning his gaze to Mark. “As said, we know a few crews, so if you don’t want to stay with us, that’s fine.” He paused and looked a bit more solemn. “We wouldn’t recommend being on your own, though that’s something we can discuss. But we’d love you here.” His dark eyes turned warm and thoughtful, and just as Mark began to feel like he was getting sucked into the center of the room, potatoes and herbs and bright light and dark, earthy wood funneling him at a breathing core, Donghyuck was back at his side and taking his hand.

“You’re kind of a mess, Mark,” Donghyuck said, and held his hand equally as tight as Mark was doing to him. Mark seemed to hold everything tightly, and Donghyuck wasn’t sure how aware he was of it. For now, he figured it was best to keep Mark’s hands away from anything that could bruise or break—like fruit or eggs. “But you’re in good company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you weren't here for my mess-up where I posted a very short chapter six but had read up to chapter five, please go back and read the beginning of chapter five! You'll notice I have a memory at the beginning of this chapter. Chapter five was meant to have an interlude at the beginning, but I forgot it in my haste to post and had to retcon with this update. My apologies! Everything is as it should be, now =]
> 
> This is a chapter I'm most uneasy about, but I believe it's a necessary section to have in order to solidify relationships and dynamics. The next chapter is a bit more fresh, and then after that, things will start to pick up again.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has received this so well. I've been gaining a lot of strength and happiness from every comment, kudo, and subscription. I'm delighted to be writing this and to have it be enjoyable for others as well.


	7. Presage

** (Interlude **

_“Nothing occurs at random, but everything for a reason and by necessity.”_ \- Leucippus

 

Sometimes—not very often—one of their kind got away.

It was a result of the severe reverberations of any party larger than two working in tandem. They didn’t work recklessly, but targeting the functionality of _Wàigāoqiáo_ coal plant in Shanghai wasn’t exactly a small-group event. While Taeil’s and Donghyuck’s groups pinched the northeast and southeast, respectively, Dongyoung and his unit were in charge of the west side. In general, everyone always attempted to reduce contact with any unnecessary bodies, but in the midst of the coal plant escape, Dongyoung could swear that the kid attempting to climb the fence to the plant was one of them.

Not just anyone would drop from a chain link fence and clutch their chest in discomfort while a group of fleeing witches burst through.

They had been moving too fast at the time. He had only really been able to think about it in retrospect, looking back at the alarm in those eyes even as all the lights went out, and the fact that some kid was trying to climb the fence in the first place. They hadn’t bothered with him at the time. If he wasn’t obstructing them, he was just another citizen.

At bare minimum, Dongyoung had to go. He’d been the only one to witness anyone at all, and thus the only one who could even remotely recognize some random teenager. In fact, the practical odds of finding the kid were slim to none, but it was better to try than to leave a potential loose cannon. Or worst of all, found and used by the ELE.

All in all, it was better to go alone. They weren’t sure how many cameras had spotted their group—how on guard the Shanghai ELE were. This way, Dongyoung was the needle in a haystack.

A needle searching for another needle.

It wasn’t the worst case scenario, however. Not even close. As downright stupid as it might have seemed, he went back to the compound fence. Stupid recognized stupid as they stared each other down.

* * *

There was a reason the elite dubbed them eco terrorists. Like a flag taken down, the flue-gas stacks of the plant had slipped and crumbled sideways, the clearest indicator of a chaos visitation. The next clearest of indicators was the fact that the plant was utterly bereft of smoke. The air was still seeded with smog, and there were already some construction vehicles and repair scaffolding, but there was a pathetic absence of workers manning either, and the plant itself was silent.

A kid sat in the shade of the trees that hemmed the compound fence, a book in his hands and earbuds slung around his neck. He sat, in fact, right near the ruined section they’d burst through, the hole looped up with caution tape.

Dongyoung’s breath was warm on the inside of his mask, the air hot and dusty, as stupid recognizing stupid stared each other down.

“ _Are you a witch?_ ” the kid asked, or Dongyoung figured he asked. He spoke in Mandarin. His eyebrows were bold and dark.

Dongyoung expected this—the Mandarin and the eyebrows. Or rather, he’d hoped for the eyebrows, and he’d hoped for not-Mandarin, but Mandarin would have been his best guess.

The eyebrows were all he really remembered from that night.

And Dongyoung knew piecemeal Mandarin courtesy of Sicheng muttering under his breath, and he could maybe reasonably assume that the kid asked something along the lines of whether he was a witch or not. Dongyoung got flashbacks of Taeyong telling him to bring Sicheng.

“Do you speak Korean?”

“Yes.”

He tried not to make his relief evident. Instead, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his shorts and shook the hair out of his eyes as best he could. The tips of his hair were already sweaty and clung to his skin. “How old are you?”

“Eighteen. Are you a witch?”

Dongyoung considered the eighteen-year-old. “Maybe.”

The kid closed his book and if anything, his stare got more intense. “I want to join you.” Inhaling deep, he stood up, fingertips twitching to brush himself off. “I think I’m one of you. Please.”

It was harder to suppress a smile than it had been to suppress relief. “Prove it.”

** End) **

 

 

_“The practice of humanity depends on oneself. Does it depend on others?”_ \- _The Analects_ 12.1

 

“They have another.” 

Both Jeno and Donghyuck stopped, Donghyuck nearly losing his balance for the urgency of catching Mark speak. He did it rarely enough that it affected him like an alarm clock on an anxious night. Jeno reached out to steady him, hot fingers around his bare arm as they both attempted to catch their breaths.

“They have another?” Donghyuck repeated, blank bewilderment underneath the sweat on his face. The meaning of the statement escaped him, if that’s really what Mark said—he’d been dodging Jeno’s attempt to put him in a headlock from behind and easily could have misheard. The sun was hot, and Jeno was sporting the beginnings of a mild UV burn on his nose, cheekbones, and the tops of his bare feet. Donghyuck was naturally, proudly tanner, so the sun would have to try a lot harder than that.

“That’s what you said?” Jeno asked, merely to clarify.

Mark nodded from where he sat watching them, cross-legged in the soft dirt around the main mast and neatly situated in its shadow. Aside from a look of wear and frailty, Mark looked better already. His skin was absent of bruises and any cuts, but Sicheng couldn’t exactly launch him from being severely underweight to normal via minute breakdown and reknitting in just a handful of sessions. That’s not how his Chaos worked. All the surface injuries, though? Those were gone.

“Okay,” Donghyuck said, and waited, pushing his hair back. His hair stuck from the sweat alone. Disgusting. His patience, though, was thin, so when Mark only picked at his nails, he inhaled for a further prodding. “Another what?”

Jeno lifted his shirt to wipe the sweat off his forehead and Donghyuck wrinkled his nose on instinct. “And who’s ‘they?’” Jeno asked, voice muffled a little by the fabric of his shirt.

“Use your sleeve, you harlot,” Donghyuck snipped, backhanding the skin of Jeno’s abs with a smack. It elicited a satisfying yelp and Jeno thwacking Donghyuck’s bicep in retaliation.

Mark shifted and Donghyuck’s focus realigned on the oldest, again on instinct. He’d have to shake that compulsion eventually, but Mark was ill. He’d attempt to rid himself of the beck-and-call attitude later.

“The E—?” Mark said, hesitant on the term.

“ELE. The Ecological Law Enforcement. Or so they say,” Jeno supplied. “They have another what?”

“Of me.” His big eyes glittered morosely at them from the shade, a cluster of pink rhododendron kissing his elbow. Jeno wiped another drip of sweat from his temple using his sleeve this time.

Donghyuck sighed and moved into the shadow of the mast. “Hyung, be less cryptic, dear god. It’s so hot out.” His own sweat had breached his eyelashes and his eyes copped hold of a nasty sting. It was unintentionally nice for Mark to give them both a break from sparring, of course, but his brain really wasn’t up for the current activity of dissecting Mark’s words.

“Like you have a clone?” Jeno asked, brain whirring almost audibly. “That would be wild.”

Mark blinked, eyebrows furrowing. “A Bait. Another person like me.”

It was as if Mark had severed another tether to Donghyuck’s anchor in a single moment, and he was left afloat in a world of fluid emotion. “Oh.”

* * *

None of them really had to care for the plants the ship supplied—they had to do almost nothing, really, so long as they didn’t strip the entire organism bare. Even when it was moving, it thrived on, and in the hottest months of the year, it burst in Korean wildflowers.

Renjun sat on the gunwale with his arms tangled in the shrouds, watching the ship split the waters like it was a vast scene of tumbling cobalt. A harlequin ladybird relaxed on his bare knee, only occasionally shifted by the sea winds, as a prunus shrub contrived to tickle his calves through the gaps in the edge of the ship.

Here, he felt safe, but every once in a while he allowed himself to mull over the enduring memory of a duo of gunshots. Taeil was the oldest among them, but he was still his early twenties, and Jisung was only fifteen. Of all the ELE Renjun had witnessed, none of them had looked younger than thirty. Mark was eighteen.

His stomach knotted and curled as he sucked in the briny, sweet air of deep earth.

“Injunnie.”

Renjun choked on a gasp and the harlequin startled from his knee as he twisted to face Donghyuck. “What, what? Do you have to be so quiet?”

He shouldn’t have deigned to flare at Donghyuck when all it gained was a cheshire grin. “My bad,” he quipped and settled himself right up next to Renjun’s body.

“Push off.” Renjun elbowed Donghyuck, jostling his balance.

“No. I actually need to talk to you.”

Renjun leaned further into the rigging, temporarily mollified. “Then talk, I guess.” Donghyuck looked just a touch away from disgusting, and hardly smelled like a spring day. He must have been sparring—probably with Jeno since Jaemin was _hors de combat_ still, and last he heard, the two youngest had been charged with cleaning duty from Youngho.

(“I can use my other had still,” Jaemin had said, but the withering look Sicheng had sent him was enough to shut down that thread of argument, and that was that.)

“How many Bait do you think the ELE has?” Donghyuck asked, bare heels knocking together and against the balusters in a scattered way.

A bird chirped from one of the topsails in Renjun’s moment of trying to digest the question.

He glanced at Donghyuck, and it was only a glance because Donghyuck was already staring at him for an answer and Renjun wasn’t one for such intense eye contact.

Plus, it didn’t feel like the real question.

“Well,” Renjun said, “The ELE’s pretty global, and so are we. Last time I checked any sort of statistics, the program had upward 20,000 employees. And were proud of it.” He took a breath. “But that was ages ago. Back when Kun picked me up.”

He’d made a gutter rat out of himself after the ELE showed up at his high school to establish “protective” policies. He’d been activated silently and without notice at a fair a year back—a lot of Mind Witches were missed, he reckoned—and had lain low. Once the ELE had shown up, he’d panicked. Hopped the fence and ran home, stuffed some things in a bundle while his parents were at work, and fled with a breath of a hope that he’d be found by his kind. He waited for a week, and that was by far the hardest week of his life.

He was sitting where he was, now, despite the heat, because it let him look out for the Lunar Brig while still on deck. He’d never been keen on the crow’s nest, so he’d entangle himself in the shrouds and gunwale. Kun would be home soon, and so would Ten.

“So. A lot,” Donghyuck said. “You’re saying they have a lot of Baits.”

The closest rope of rigging rubbed against Renjun’s cheek and he focused in on one of the moles on Donghyuck’s neck. “They definitely don’t advertise, so I dunno, Hyuck. I should hope not.” He liked the smell of the ropes. They smelled green, somehow, and a little oily. “Why?”

Renjun made no effort to avoid Donghyuck leaning into him. He was used to his sweaty smellnow anyway, and he could recognize a plea for comfort when he saw one. “Mark said they had another Bait along with him.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what I said.”

It wasn’t the easiest to talk to Mark—he was often visibly on edge and very, very quiet. Renjun could handle quiet just fine, but he liked for it to be comfortable and relaxed, and he had no idea what Mark was seeing and feeling. He literally couldn’t imagine. He’d never dared to ask Yuta about his nightmares and hallucinations, and he certainly wouldn’t dare ask Mark. Donghyuck, on the other hand, was almost always next to him. He could understand this, even if there was some strain of not having any moments with his friend for himself.

Renjun’s thoughts stuttered. “How would he know that?”

Donghyuck peeked up from his cheek on Renjun’s shoulder. “How do you mean?”

“I mean,” Renjun continued, “Aren’t Bait deprived of everything? How would he know there was another person with him?”

There was silence between them, though the ocean kept tumbling and the same bird persistently vied for Renjun’s attention with its chirps.

“And they hallucinate, too. Bait,” Donghyuck added, words a little distant.

Renjun breathed in, a hint of Donghyuck’s soap still lingering in his hair. “Do you want to ask him? I don’t know if we should…” His next words diminished into a hum of uncertainty, and then he continued. “… assume he’s hallucinating someone.”

Donghyuck sighed and nuzzled into Renjun’s shoulder. “Right.”

* * *

On occasion, Jungwoo would see colors swirling around his own crew members like tinted steam curling off their skin. This was mostly bewildering, and maybe a little amusing, but mostly cause for self-reflection.

At the moment, Taeyong was unfurling a peachy blue color, the abstraction snapping off his fingers and skin like mild solar flares.

“Hyung,” Jungwoo said, not with so much care that Taeyong would suspect him, but with enough meekness to be delicate, “are you feeling okay?”

Of course, he asked the question with full knowledge that Taeyong had almost cut his fingers off cooking that morning, and that Youngho had seen him wide awake flipping through maps at three A.M. (never mind that Youngho himself was awake), and that he’d generally been notional kin with a minefield for the past day, and his nails were bitten down to subconscious levels, and well . . . It was kind of disappointing that Taeyong had been worse.

The question alone, however, made Taeyong’s colors less vibrant as he turned his eyes to Jungwoo. “Me?”

Jungwoo laughed, reaching out for Taeyong’s hand despite the red flags. Taeyong was a creature of touch, exceptionally cuddly when it came down to it, so even though his hands were caked in dirt and his skin was snapping with peachy blue, Jungwoo reached for him.

Taeyong scrutinized the offering, the back of Jungwoo’s hand teased by spears of asparagus. They both sat in in the soft earth of what Donghyuck had dubbed the Vegetable Pit. It opposed the other end of the ship, which Ten had dubbed The Netherworld just because that’s where the fruit grew. Renjun had descended into a rabbit hole of wondering if The Earth was inherently aware of family divisions in flora—or else it was odd that they were separated at all.

Jungwoo’s personal theory was that The Earth was just keen on making people ask silly questions.

In any case, Taeyong ended up pouting.

“My hands are dirty.”

“So are mine,” Jungwoo said, and moved to grab Taeyong’s hand anyway. His fingers were cold. “You were giving off color.”

Taeyong gaped, the expression comical enough that Jungwoo grinned. “I would never hurt you,” Taeyong protested.

“I know, hyung.”

Jungwoo knew, certainly, but there was still a zipping suffocation in the threads of his lungs. It was horrible, but he could only do so much to shake the bodily reaction his Chaos caused in himself. Misplaced color meant danger, meant dangerous, sometimes lethal chaos. He’d been logging particular colors for ages, but the patterns were still so complex that the implications were dizzying rather than helpful.

“I’m not going to hurt anyone.”

“I know.”

“Are you afraid of me?”

Jungwoo smiled and squeezed Taeyong’s hand. “No.” 

He was. 

He was, but not really. His logical brain wasn’t afraid, and though his Chaos was helpful more often than not, it was also just hot air sometimes.

Still, he was a good actor, so Taeyong relaxed, and the colors relaxed, too, and Jungwoo kissed the middle knuckle of Taeyong’s hand despite the immediate complaint that it extracted. “I know you’re stressed,” he said, and let go of his hand, “but we need you here. Just like everyone else. Let’s trust everyone to come back home, okay?”

Eyes down, Taeyong pushed at the dirt under him with his palm and gave a soft exhale. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡
> 
> Greetings to Doyoung and a few questions answered (hopefully)!


	8. The Hornet's Nest

_“(On thunder, lightning, thunderbolts, whirlwinds, and typhoons) . . . all these things occur as a result of wind: for whenever it is shut up in a thick cloud and then bursts out forcibly, through its fineness and lightness, then the bursting makes the noise, while the rift against the blackness of the cloud makes the flash.”_ \- Aetius on Anaximander

 

Chenle’s excitement was contagious, and he was contagious in the devastating way—the way that parted all fourteen bodies of the crew in meek wonder when Kun and Ten stepped across the gangplank between the Lunar Brig and their own ship. Chenle sprung forward before Kun had even planted his heel on Neo Culture (“It makes us sound like bacteria,” Sicheng would say; “So?” Youngho would retort.), flinging his arms around his gege and burying his face in his chest.

“Good lord,” Ten said, and edged around the two to arrive properly. “Try not to drown your mother, Lele.”

“Don’t call me his mother.”

“Mm.”

Ten looked bright, despite his noncommittal hum of teasing derision, and tired, despite looking bright. All the same, he let himself be pulled aboard into a bear hug from Youngho, then everyone else, passed around like a semi-resistant, Thai squid until he could tickle the dickens out of Jaemin and finally notice Mark.

“Oh!” he said, and only at that point did Chenle release Kun. Taeyong traded places with them on the gangplank to give his thanks to Haseul as Ten offered his hand for Mark to take. “I’m Ten. Are you staying with us?”

He still had Jaemin tucked against him, and that was probably the only reason why Mark did not hesitate to take his hand. His grip was much gentler now, but still just as earnest.

“I’m Mark. And I think so.”

“He is,” Donghyuck said, butting in to confirm, and Ten gave him a cheeky smile that in no way deterred Donghyuck. There were too many hyungs with good poker faces for Donghyuck to not develop the skill, and Ten was one of those hyungs.

“Cute,” Ten said nonetheless, letting Jaemin go and taking his hand back from Mark. “It’s good to meet you, Mark. That’s Kun, by the way. He’s in love with me.”

While Donghyuck laughed at the shout of repulsion from Kun, Mark only looked bewildered, which ultimately made Donghyuck laugh more. And, well, if Chenle’s excitement was contagious, Donghyuck was contagious for his laugh.

The overall chuckles subsided when, out of the blue and just as Taeyong boarded their ship again, Ten asked, “Wait—where’s Dongz?”

Youngho bit back a wince as Taeyong tensed up, pushing some encroaching dragonflies away from his head. “He’s away.” The general silence felt as deafening as being caught beneath waves.

Ten looked nonplussed, poker face be damned. “Oh. Alright.” He seemed to reconsider the follow-up question, and Taeyong neatly took advantage of the hesitation.

“Glad to see you safe!” he chirped and finally stole his hug from Ten, effectively squeezing out any further consideration for questioning. “Let’s take a look at that flash drive. Jungwoo, Johnny, care to help?”

And with that, the crew was in motion again, the awkward air ignored in favor of giving Taeyong a break and resuming their natural process of things.

Three calls and five texts left without answer still sat in some of their stomachs, of course, but what were they to do?

* * *

“He hasn’t returned yet.”

Youngho rubbed at his mouth, his chest pinching.

“Taeyong’s going to have a nervous breakdown.”

Youngho managed a laugh. “Heck, _I’m_ going to have a nervous breakdown. He really hasn’t answered any of his texts?”

Taeil leaned back in his chair and scrubbed through his hair, newly cut shorter via clippers. He seemed to cut his hair on impulse for no discernible reason that Youngho had picked up. He had a couple working theories that it was a stress response, or sheer impulsivity, or—“Last one he answered was yesterday morning.”

“Yeah, that’s not—”

The door to their room opened with a bang.

“He’s calling I need Jungwoo where is he!”

Youngho scrambled to his feet from sitting cross-legged on the ground, steadying himself on Taeil’s chair that had just slammed the wooden slats. “You didn’t pick up the phone?” Youngho asked simultaneous to Taeil saying, “Kitchen?”

Taeyong, the current intruder, tossed the ringing phone to Youngho, already spinning on his heel for the kitchen. “You pick it up.” It buzzed in Youngho’s hands as he fumbled to exact the demand, bewildered, but also distinctly aware of the anger in Taeyong’s eyes. His witness of it was brief, but Taeyong was angry—that much was clear.

Sliding his thumb to pick up, he hastened to follow behind Taeyong, instinctively pulling Taeil with him by the wrist. “Doyoung?”

_“No.”_ It was the tiniest breath of a whisper and Youngho stopped dead in his tracks. He pulled the phone away from his ear, checked the ID, and his stomach plummeted as he tapped the mute button.

“TY! TY, TY, come back here,” Youngho barked, watching the anger morph into alarm as Taeyong turned his head.

“What? What is it?”

Youngho tapped the mute, then speaker phone, felt Taeil’s eyes flick between him and the device.

“Hello?” Youngho said.

There was silence on the other end, then a rustling. _“Hello?”_

In no world was that Dongyoung’s voice.

Taeyong came right up to the phone, fingers spinning through the roots of his hair in a glitching flutter of panic. “Who are you? Who is this?”

Taeil reached to hold one of Taeyong’s hands and squeezed, a silent beg for him to be less sharp in his demands. The sun above their ship heated the tops of their bent heads.

_“Xiao Dejun. My name is Dejun. Is this—is this Taeyong?”_

The price of being less sharp was the beginning of what looked like tears, and Youngho fought the urge to tug Taeyong in—doing so would disrupt the conversation.

“Where is he? Where’s Doyoung?” Taeyong’s voice was so strained that Taeil promptly took him into his arms and led him a few feet away, stroking through his hair as all the tension reached its apex. Taeyong resisted, and then the tears really came, and Youngho turned away on instinct for privacy’s sake.

Youngho drew in a breath and took the call off speaker phone, hugging the device to his ear. His pulse was punching away in his chest and head. “This is Johnny. Dejun, right?”

_“I need to talk to Taeyong.”_

“I promise I’ll tell him everything. He’s currently—” _In hysterics._ “—indisposed.” Youngho tuned out both Taeyong and Taeil’s voices. It was hard enough to hear Dejun’s whispers, which were concerning in their own right.

The quiet on the other side made Youngho close his eyes, a prayer to no deity in particular pacing behind his lips.

_“He told me to call Taeyong,”_ Dejun finally said, almost quieter than before, and Youngho strained to listen as he stood in the middle of the deck surrounded by wildflowers and fruit trees. _“He gave me his phone and told me to call Taeyong if he didn’t come back and he hasn’t come back.”_

It was hard to swallow around the dryness in his throat, but he managed anyway. “Are you still in Shanghai?”

_“Yes.”_

“If we send people out, will you meet us?”

_“Yes.”_

The situation felt bad and sour, but their options were limited. “Can you stay on the phone, Dejun? I just need a few minutes.”

_“Yes.”_

The ship was hazy, his pulse was too loud, Taeyong’s gaze was big, and despite his needs and desperation to keep his own head, he could see Dongyoung injured or captured almost perfectly in his mind’s eye.

Youngho muted the phone again and took a few seconds to breathe, to discard the thoughts of _I don’t know what to do._ from his head.

“Okay, so,” he began, and though his voice was far from him, he could still aim his words toward Taeil and Taeyong, “everything’s going to be okay. Let’s figure this out.”

* * *

Jungwoo was the most obvious choice, followed by Yuta and Kun. Both Jeno and Ten were backup, hooked to a bluetooth connection, but would remain on the ship—as would everyone else. Taeyong had ripped a hangnail off his finger, so he was somewhat unreasonably incapacitated by Sicheng, more or less, though he didn’t have any argument against not coming along. In fact, he seemed to be avoiding everyone else in general, which made Yuta anxious and jittery, but would have to be dealt with later.

The ship pushed them out right along _Haixu_ Road where it had landed them before. The air was a mix of smog and dust. It immediately brought a frown to Jungwoo’s face, a keen imaginary rattle settling between his lungs. To him, the entire atmosphere was an odd, limpid purple haze.

“I think I’m a hypochondriac.”

Over the earpiece, Ten replied, _“What’s new, Zeus?”_ and the laughter lilting out of Jungwoo because of it eased some of the tension right on the spot.

Youngho’s voice crowded in, this time. _“They’re in a residential district.”_

“They are?” Kun questioned, expression forming something of mild distaste. “Why are we near the power station, then?”

_“That’s where Dongz went first.”_

“We’re retracing,” Yuta clarified.

_“Yes. You’re right between the Northern Free Trade Zone and the plant. Dejun said they met where Dongz had broken in, and I just need you to check there for anything suspicious before you go to where they are now.”_

“So we’ll have to catch a ride to…?”

There was a moment of silence.

_“He’s asking,”_ Jeno said.

They waited.

_“Guangmingxinkun. Or roundabouts.”_

Yuta raised his eyebrows at Kun.

“I’m from Fujian. I have no idea,” Kun admitted, raising his eyebrows back.

As they took everything in, there was a moment of absent ennui where the three of them stood, waiting, almost, for something to be thrust upon them. Instead, they only heard the loud S20 freeway as they looked at the toppled flue stacks ahead of them.

“Right,” Kun said, finally, and that got them moving. Moving in on the plant hardly felt like trespassing, _Haigao_ Highway a neat little branch right to the northwest side where Dongyoung and his unit had breached the fence.

Wanting to retrace was understandable—especially considering they had Jungwoo—but it was only a gap in the fence with tape over it. There weren’t any traces, nothing suggesting Dongyoung had activated again, and Jungwoo claimed he was seeing nothing out of the ordinary.

“There’s a hornet’s nest, though,” he admitted.

“Charming,” Kun said. “Will we head straight for the residential area, then?”

The other side of the line hesitated. Or at the very least remained silent.

A trickle of sweat from the heat slipped down from Kun’s temple, and Jungwoo watched. Yuta looked at the sky.

“Johnny,” Yuta said. “We’ll be alright.”

There was a hiccup of a sudden breath on the other side, then movement, and then, _“Yeah. Of course. I’m just—”_ A continuance didn’t occur immediately. Yuta began to pull his hair back. _“—scared.”_

Rather than be unbalanced by Youngho’s honesty, Yuta smiled, and so did the other two, though both Kun and Yuta could reckon the thrum of anxiety Jungwoo felt was worse than the whole crew put together in that moment. It was comforting that Jungwoo still smiled despite it. “Johnny-boy,” Yuta said, and his hair looked untidy, but at least it was off his neck, “I promise we’ll call for Ten and Jeno as soon as things seem even a little bad.”

Youngho’s exhale was shaky on the other end.

“Can you remind us of the street we’re supposed to get to? I’ll call a cab,” Kun suggested.

The remaining hesitation made Jungwoo wipe his hands on his shorts, then bring his hand up to touch his own earpiece. “Jen?” Jungwoo said.

_“Yes, hyung.”_

“Hold Johnny’s hand and tell him it’s going to be alright.”

And if Jungwoo said it, it had to be true, so Jeno told Youngho, and presumably held his hand, and eventually Youngho said, _“Guangze Road in Guangmingxinkun should be fine. I’ll text you an address. There’s a bus route you can catch if you get to the Free Trade District first.”_

“Oh, excellent,” Jungwoo said, and looked like he actually meant it. “I hate cars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will involve the partial resolution of this one, so no worries.
> 
> I did SO much detail research for this chapter, but it was very fun. All the street names are as accurate as I could get to the real-life, perfectly existing (though intact) coal power plant they fictionally targeted in Shanghai. Unfortunately for my detail-absorbed hiney, street view wasn't available for any of the places, and since I'm not Chinese and have never visited Shanghai, I'm doing the best that I can. I figured, also, that I would use the romanizations to remain consistent, but I feel like the clunkiness of it is truly a disgrace. The different Chinese dialects are truly beautiful, but the sheer overwhelming length of "Guangmingxinkun?" Maybe not. 
> 
> There is public transport available in the free trade district, but I can't say for sure whether it would lead to the precise residential district I had in mind. Not that I expect anyone to thoroughly fact-check me, but if you have the means, I enthusiastically invite you to correct me.
> 
> For some reason, chapter 7 received almost no feedback, so I really hope it was enjoyable, and I hope the same for this one! I'll see you in four days with chapter 9 ^^


	9. Grey is the Color of Goodbye

_“[They], too, held that void exists and that breath and void enter from the Unlimited into the heaven itself which, as it were, inhales . . .”_ \- Aristotle

 

Leaving his phone with Dejun had been a precaution if things went south, as unlikely as it had seemed at the time, but now he wished he had kept it.

_We travel in pairs!_ sludged around in his head as the purple accent wall of the apartment went kind of grey.

He didn’t regret not bringing Dejun.

But his phone.

He wished he had it.

He could have returned one of Taeyong’s calls. Or Yoonoh’s.

His shirt was ruined.

The purple wall was very grey.

His hands had been too slick to turn the doorknob and now he was stuck in an unfamiliar apartment with the contraption at the doorway beeping, beeping, beeping, beeping.

They’d wake up soon—if he hadn’t been fatal.

He could hardly see.

It had been a long time.

A really long time.

Since he’d cried.

* * *

Xiao Dejun was the color of over-exposed milk, sitting on his hands on a park bench in the middle of August. His eyebrows were impressive, though.

“Sorry,” Jungwoo said, “He hasn’t come back from checking your friend’s apartment?” 

Dejun pinched his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m sure he’s a witch, too.” A breeze rifled through the four of them, lolling lukewarmly as Dejun wiped sweat from his sunburned nape. None of the benches were in shade, the pavement blazing and the grass of the park dying in patches.

Kun held the sheer willpower to not be annoyed at Dejun’s response. “Well, okay, but is there a reason he wouldn’t come back?” They were all speaking in Korean for the ease of inclusion, and Kun was endeared to Dejun’s familiar accent, distantly, but he wasn’t exactly endeared to the person himself at that moment.

“I don’t know.” Dejun looked on the verge of panic. Or tears.

Now Kun felt bad.

“I can prove I’m one of you if you don’t bel—”

_“Don’t.”_ Yuta’s voice was sharp. “Activating is dangerous enough, let alone close to a residential district.” Shanghai was disgustingly humid—even for a man from Osaka—so Yuta looked somewhat wilted, though it didn’t take the edge off his voice.

The boy’s lips pinched, shoulders hitching.

Jungwoo tapped the toes of his worn out shoes on the pavement, looking distantly, guardedly uneasy. “Well, it can’t be helped. You don’t _look_ dangerous.” The comment made Dejun pull the subtlest of faces, which was an understandable reaction for someone not in-the-know. “So you’d best show us where the apartment is.”

Yuta held out his hand, and when Dejun looked to take it, he said more pointedly. “Give me the phone.”

And it wasn’t usual for Yuta to be anything less than friendly, but there was an almost flattering lavender color wafting off his skin to Jungwoo’s eyes.

It wasn’t aimed at Jungwoo, so he didn’t feel particularly threatened, but it was a rare sight.

Either way, whether Dejun could see the colors or not (he almost definitely couldn’t—Jungwoo’sChaos was exceptional), he seemed terrorized in general, and gave the phone back without hesitation.

“Up you get, kid,” Kun said, and he held his hand out with the actual intent to help Dejun stand. Meek, he took it. “You’re in front, for now.”

* * *

Dejun took his job seriously, moving quick along the sidewalks to the building Dongyoung had supposedly entered. There was almost no one out and about on a day like this, but windows gaped open, televisions blearily blurting out news about record-high temperatures as if the whole block couldn’t _tell._ Yuta tailed behind, tapping through Dongyoung’s phone for evidence of tampering even as he found nothing. Dongyoung’s home screen was a close up of the bonsai he kept in the bedroom he shared with Jungwoo, password the same it had been for years, apps organized and color-coded. Yuta slipped the heated device in his back pocket, shoving the jumping canine of panic down to the floor of his lungs.

The whole apartment structure Dejun led them to was nothing special, the landings open to the outside and letting the wind in the higher they climbed. The fourth floor was finally where Dejun stopped, hesitating in front of room 44.

Jungwoo’s eyes hovered around the cracks around the door, his gaze steeling steadily in everyone’s moment of hesitation. The lack of notable colors was more suspicious than a presence, and the door itself was nondescript. Jungwoo reached for the doorknob, turned, and pushed in one go.

A shade of white artificial light bled through just barely before the door hit something firm. Some _thing_ was making frantic beeping noises, and a voice choked on a note of surprise.

The door jerked from Jungwoo’s grip, opening wide on a gangly boy with blood on his hands and dilated panic in his eyes. “I didn’t do it!”

“Didn’t do what?” Kun demanded.

“Kunhang!” Dejun said.

“Dejun?” Kunhang looked like this was the third time someone had hit him with a sledgehammer in minutes, breath coming fast and uneven. He had the aura of someone who’d thrown up, though he didn’t reek that way. The predominant smells coming from inside were gunpowder and a home-that-wasn’t-theirs. “I don’t know what’s happening!”

Kun pushed Kunhang to the side and got a faceful of the scene.

_“Shit.”_

Three bodies. Two were Dongyoung’s handiwork, a man and a woman, single and neat hits to the head leading to trickles of blood kissing the pristine white carpet.

The third body was Dongyoung, the one they were looking for, and Yuta bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Flashes of his imagination terrorized him for a paralyzing moment as if the scene was playing in rewind, then replay, and then he yanked himself out of it all because he had to act—not stand there like the Bait he'd once been.

“Can someone shut that thing up?” Yuta snapped, descending first to his friend’s curled body as Kunhang fumbled with the device nailed into the wall. Scarlet flowered across Dongyoung’s shoulder, a raw hole the size of Yuta’s fingerprint just barely visible under Dongyoung’s blighted shirt, but it wasn’t so bad as his thigh. A pool drooled sluggishly from below the weak tourniquet, the injury messy and just about incomprehensible. Kun’s hand shook as he checked under Dongyoung’s limp jaw.

Pale as he was already, he blanched further in a mix of relief and horror. “He’s alive.”

_“What do you mean he’s_ alive _?”_ Youngho’s voice pushed through their earpieces. _“What’s going on?”_

The alarm finally stopped as Yuta yanked on the tourniquet, tightening it into something more effective. “Doyoung’s been shot. Twice,” Yuta said—only for the benefit of Youngho, who didn’t seem to be benefitted by that information at all given the swallowed sound of pain.

The tourniquet Dongyoung had used looked to have been a table runner, given the shattered pottery beside the coffee table. A single shard pressed into Dongyoung’s cheek, streaks of tears just a whispered trace down his face. 

Kunhang and Dejun stood like straw scarecrows as Jungwoo checked the other two bodies and Yuta picked Dongyoung up from the ground. He held him as gently as possible, but there weren’t a lot of ways to carry someone whose torso and leg were both injured—not in any way that wasn’t incredibly suspicious. His body was warm. He’d never had to carry Dongyoung like this.

Jungwoo turned to Kunhang from the ground, fingers cradling the woman’s head. Her permed black curls stuck to his fingers with the crimson from her temple, but Jungwoo seemed calm. “Are you their son?” His eyes were the softest any of their eyes had been in the last few minutes.

“N-no.” Kunhang was swallowing air, straw body swaying like it was falling to pieces in the wind. “Host family. They’re my host parents.”

Carefully, Jungwoo rolled them onto their sides. “Why don’t you call an ambulance, Kunhang? They might still be okay.”

“They’re not dead?” The boy’s handsome face crumpled into something far more pathetic, body visibly shaking as his tears spilled over.

“Not yet.” Jungwoo stood up with one of their phones in his hand. He handed it over. “Call with this. Would be bad if you were implicated, you know?” He wandered to the kitchen to find wipes to clean some of the surfaces that may have been touched as well as to pass one over to Kunhang’s stained hands. Dongyoung didn’t have his gloves, and Kunhang had touched the device. Said contraption was a disgusting yellow sheen that turned Jungwoo’s stomach, its beeping a wired echo in his head. All implicating fingerprints were a helpful blood red swimming in his vision.

Kunhang’s hands and voice shook as he called 120 and cooling tears wobbled down his chin. Jungwoo wiped down tables and pretended he was a restaurant employee because once upon a time, he had been, and this is what he called coping. Kun spoke while turned away from Kunhang, just loud enough for Youngho to hear.

“Can you open closer to where we are?”

_“Working on it.”_

* * *

The walk to the nearest isolated nature spot was agony, Yuta’s jaw clenched like he could feel the same pain Dongyoung would have felt if he were conscious. They had covered Dongyoung’s injuries with a jacket Kunhang had scrounged from his room, but what people were out stared anyway. The most isolated they got was behind a public bathroom in the same local park Dejun had met them in.

A pure vandalism in Chinese characters were sprayed into the concrete blocks, a lurid and petty green. There was an unfortunately identifiable stench adulterating the air, but they had trees and grass at their backs and a massive overgrown weed of burdock gnawing through a crack in the pavement. It would really, simply have to do.

_“Opening in three, two—”_

The concrete wall split, opening like a murky lizard’s eye into Chaos Relative’s deep, confident colors. The portal was much less grandiose than they could sometimes afford—only about as big as two bodies could manage to slip through. Still, the air coming from within was sweet and briny and cool, hushing over their faces from a stretch of wild Chinese beach. Space could only be compressed so much to accommodate their needs for travel, so this wasn’t their regular port, but there was something inherently, beautifully homologous to Chaos Relative no matter where they were within it.

Bay hops clung to the sand, sea oats leaning from the wind. A duo of plovers took flight as Yuta ducked through with Dongyoung, the jacket tucked over his body lifting in the breeze and brushing Yuta’s hair over his face. From a little distance, their ship’s leaves and trees bustled in the sea breeze as some of their crew dashed down the gangplank.

They had allowed Kunhang to come along, though his alliance was contested and obscure at best. Kunhang, however, had hardly been the concern of the moment, so his witness of the portal elicited a swallowed squeak of shock. He seized Dejun’s wrist in a death-grip, and then involuntarily loosened it in less than two seconds as he passed out right over the threshold, head hitting the sand with an aborted scream from Dejun.

Dejun stared at all of them with alarm, Kunhang limp as a dead fish at their feet.

Kun closed his eyes and prayed to a deity they weren’t even sure existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating just a little early because I can! Next update should come on Tuesday!
> 
> I've been feeling very fragile lately, but it hasn't stopped me from writing (for which I am relieved). A lot of things happened all at once and made me feel vulnerable, so perhaps this chapter is fitting. Some necessary comfort will come Tuesday, though—needed for me and these characters, too.
> 
> By the way, I make an effort to reply to all comments, so if you have any questions I will be more than happy to answer (if I can, and it doesn't spoil anything to do so)! I've been so grateful for the support and kindness I've received with this fic. I've needed and wanted it, and I cherish every comment, kudo, and bookmark. It all means the world to me.
> 
> I hope all of my readers are doing well.


	10. Burn Out

** (Lore **

She stirs, fingers pinching, mouth parting. She learns to bleed at an early age, when her tiny fists release feathers and tiny heartbeats that live for only one of her long, hymnal breaths. But still she suffers when her skin splits apart, when her thighs and ankles and elbows chafe and blister. She rises with the heat and burns like an everlasting sun, though she was never born to be one.

 

It hurts until she screams, her flesh pocked from the tears at her flesh. She bleeds, and melts, and screams.

 

Her soul is purple and sweet, just a hymnal breath upon her skin, but she cries because she wishes for eternity with her life. She has protected and cherished every blossoming sensation from her genesis to her present, but she burns, and bleeds, and shivers from the agony of giving.

 

They rip out her nails, her tongue, her eyes. She thrums, she sobs.

 

And then she awakes like a burning sun, letting her soul seep through her weakening fingers. Purple caresses her skin in tiny, tiny handprints and tiny, tiny tears.

 

She is Earth, she is Chaos, and she burns.

** End) **

 

 

_“. . . earthquakes happen in periods both of drought and again of excessive rains; for in droughts, as has been said, it dries up and cracks, and being made over-moist by the waters it crumbles apart.”_ -Aristotle

 

In the midst of Ten and Kun’s return, the Lunar Brig’s Hyunjin had traded one of her chickens for a young plum tree, complete with a clutch of fertilized eggs. Most ships made trades when they came in contact, though such contact wasn’t too frequent. Dongyoung got his bonsais through trade, and their second strain of cabbage was also a more recent thing, but it was by no means a system. They were favors, more like, and this one was particularly kind.

Megara, the chicken, was allegedly not very “broody” and very well-behaved, and the eggs were set to hatch in less than a fortnight with her having sat on them for a week already. The clutch was a complete set of twelve, and Hyunjin had written any helpful instructions down before the brig parted from the Neo.

No one had quite caught on that Taeyong had adopted Megara’s brooding pen for his haunt, so whilst everyone cared for the Shanghai returns, Taeyong settled there, cross-legged in the corner and watching the way the sun played on Megara’s feathers.

The entire pen, so to speak, was really just a small room with two windows and wood all-around under soft dirt and vines. There was a natural, trickling thing of spring water in the very corner that pooled there, then continued down below. The fresh water was one of the many mysteries of the ship, but Renjun, never the one to take “it’s a mystery” for an answer, had hunted down a process in the bilge where a purple-y sort of plasma was housed. It wasn’t like none of them had been aware of the mass of chaos in the lower hold, but Renjun’s audaciousness had zeroed in on a let-in of saline murk, and his theories had flown from there.

Megara clucked at Taeyong nosily from her nest as he leaned his head back and breathed.

“I don’t know,” he said, because that’s what he was thinking at the time, and then almost screamed when a “Know what?” spoke up from the doorway to the side.

“ _Yuta!_ ” Taeyong strangled out. “Yuta, _no._ I almost died!”

Yuta, hair pulled back and looking only partially ashamed, sidled in and crouched beside him. “My bad,” he said, but then he smiled, and Taeyong’s pulse throbbed weakly. “Are you going to come out?” 

His eyes searched Taeyong’s face, and he felt it, and Yuta was so incredibly proficient at reading him that trying to be stony would have been stupid. Everyone told him he was easier to read than a picture book, anyway, so he gathered his poker face must be pathetic.

“How did you know I was here?” Taeyong asked, ignoring the question because Yuta might just allow him to get away with it.

Yuta’s smile was brilliant in the smart way. Which he was. He was smart. “I guessed. Maybe I know you.”

“Maybe.” Taeyong didn’t attempt to abort his pout and only lifted his fingers to his mouth. Yuta’s hand got in the way, though, and suddenly he was grabbing Taeyong’s own hand and pulling him upward, and there was something about the trauma that Yuta had gone through that had made him pursue being fit, and it was terrifying because he made Taeyong feel like he was fragile.

But the worst part was that Yuta gave very good hugs, and maybe tugging him to a stand was just an excuse for that.

His neck smelled like sweat and sunscreen and dust.

“Why are you hiding?” Yuta asked, and Taeyong could feel his voice through his chest. Yuta squeezed him like he wasn’t as fragile as he’d imagined just a moment ago, and he felt the tears try to come up with his breath.

“I’m embarrassed,” he said. “I freaked out and Johnny took over and—I.” The tears bubbled up, and he swallowed down hard on whatever incoherence he’d blurt.

Yuta cradled his head and nestled his nose against his neck and inhaled. And held him until Taeyong may as well have been bleeding in his arms.

“Doyoung’s safe.”

And then all the world was muddy and irrational, and Yuta was whispering very softly to him while Taeyong stopped trying to hold himself up, and all he could register was a very soft kiss to his forehead among his tears.

* * *

“I’m going to kill him,” Sicheng said, and Yoonoh smiled despite everything.

“Please don’t,” he said, as if Sicheng wasn’t gingerly holding his hands over the wound in Dongyoung’s thigh.

“He’s an idiot. Dejun said he _told_ him the couple was ELE and he _still_ went in.” Sicheng seethed through his teeth even while looking washed-out and wobbly as the hour ticked by. Taeil would reach out on occasion and touch the cold sweat at Sicheng’s nape, dig into the lines of his neck and wait for him to say he couldn’t do any more. Say he needed to rest.

Yoonoh’s fingers told him Dongyoung’s heart was stronger, but he still wouldn’t wake up beyond the first time he’d done so. He’d woken partway through healing, groggy with pain, and he’d tried to move, which had made him turn the color of clean bone. Bone had led straight into unconsciousness again, and so Sicheng worked away the hour until it was too much.

At five past, Sicheng’s breath started coming fast and he abruptly stood, unsteady. Taeil reached for him.

“Don’t stand just yet. You could have passed out,” he said. “Sit.”

“No.”

Taeil blankly scrutinized the defiance from Sicheng, taking in the subtle anisocoria of Sicheng’s dark eyes from a migraine, no doubt. In one decisive action, Taeil hoisted him like a weedy heron and lifted him into the unoccupied hammock in the corner—Taeil’s own hammock, actually. “That was rude,” Taeil told him.

“I’m frustrated,” he said, but his accent was woozy and there was a splotchy, uneven flush spoiling his skin as he looked at the gatecrasher to his petulance.

“Well,” Taeil said, smiling just a little, “be frustrated lying down.”

And despite the initial protest, Sicheng was out like a smashed light within a pause of four seconds.

For the minute of Sicheng’s breath shallowing out, Taeil stood with his hands in his pockets just looking at him. Or not looking at all. Sicheng had rarely if ever gone so far as he was going now. He had left a sort of soft tinge of a scent on Taeil’s hands, wild and weird like burnt sugar and ozone. It wasn’t so strange—everyone on the crew had pushed themselves until their bodies were casks for chaos. Taeil knew himself to smell like lit matches and hot merlot when his fingertips went tingly and foreign and his mind swam like watered-down cement. He wasn’t worried about Sicheng, but he was.

When Taeil finally sat in Sicheng’s abandoned chair, Yoonoh’s gaze traced the lines of his face in his tranquil way. There was a pinch between Taeil’s hooded eyes, like he might be developing a migraine himself.

Dongyoung’s nearest hand was held in both of Yoonoh’s, knuckles resting against his lips, pulse against the heartbeats in his thumbs like the clicking of a broken music box.

“His hands are cold,” Yoonoh admitted, though in no way phrased it like a defense. Dongyoung as a whole was draped on Sicheng’s bed and bundled where it wouldn’t hurt, shrouded where he might be embarrassed if he were awake, but collarbones poking out above the sheets. He’d always had a balance of sharpness and softness, and his smile always shone like a star taking breath, but here, in this position, he looked small. Sicheng had said he’d lost a dangerous amount of blood, was sleep-deprived, and was obviously sporting two injuries. That was enough of an excuse for Dongyoung to be cold and small.

Taeil stretched out his spine against the back of the chair, reveling in the cracks and exhaling loudly. He let his neck roll for a moment, hang as a whisper of strain tapped at his temples. When he looked back up and leveled with Yoonoh, Yoonoh’s thumbs were brushing over the knuckles of Dongyoung’s hand. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Yoonoh said, because he usually was, then, “Kind of.” He freed one hand to brush some of the hair away from Dongyoung’s face, the black-blue of his locks softly falling to the side. “I’ll be better when I see his eyes open.”

A soft knock to the door drew their eyes away from Dongyoung, greeting the newcomer with a silence they weren’t bothering to shift away from. Introductions had been so cursory and disorganizedupon the Shanghai retrieval’s return that all Taeil had gathered was a mix of two names that sounded like Hangjun. The one peeking in now was the one who had been out cold and carried in on Kun’s back, though. He knew that much.

“Hey,” said the boy, hair in disarray and one eyebrow messed down, “am I—can I come in?”

Yoonoh lowered Dongyoung’s hand onto the sheets and gave a mild smile absent of dimples. “Sure. What’s your name?”

The boy slid into the room and closed the door as if it were a delicate task, which was charming but unnecessary. It would take more than a door slam to wake Sicheng, and Dongyoung waking up for a little would be, frankly, very welcome. “Wong Kunhang. I’m, uh, my host parents did that.” And by “that,” he meant Dongyoung’s bullet wounds if his gesture was anything to go off of.

“Oh,” Yoonoh said, expression ever calm and even. “You’ll forgive me if I say I don’t like you right now.”

As Kunhang cringed, Taeil gave a light laugh. “Take it down a notch, Jae. Kid didn’t shoot him.”

Yoonoh gave a heavy sigh and took Dongyoung’s hand back to his mouth, grazing his lips over his knuckles. Taeil, noting Yoonoh’s cool acceptance of his wrong, reached to beckon Kunhang closer.

“Heard you knocked your head,” Taeil said, letting Kunhang in until he could look down on Dongyoung’s closed eyes. “Feeling okay?” 

He could understand the shock of seeing Chaos Relative for the first time, could understand why Kunhang would pass right out. Their home was both tremendous and unthought of, which is why they were safe. Not only could no one figure out where the pirates went when they were done wreaking havoc, no mere human could even enter Chaos Relative without lighting up like a Christmas tree in front of Jungwoo. Chaos Relative was, as far as any of them could guess, a plane both identical and different to where they’d grown up. There wasn’t an inch of technology, of humans aside from the witches it let enter, the only things resembling something man-made being the ships they called home. It was beautiful, wild. Sicheng had called it Eden.

Kunhang’s fingertips grazed the mattress and he nodded. “Yeah. I’m really sorry.”

“For passing out?” Taeil grinned.

“For your friend getting hurt because of me,” Kunhang said, boyish eyes solemn.

Taeil hummed a note of consideration and glanced at Yoonoh. Yoonoh, however, had his eyes trained resolutely to the crook of Dongyoung’s arm. “I don’t know if that’s something you have to apologize for,” Taeil said and stood to offer his seat. “Sit down? His name’s Kim Dongyoung.” As Kunhang timidly perched on the chair, Taeil sat against a safe space of the mattress. “And I’m Moon Taeil. This is Jung Yoonoh.”

Even clearly young, Kunhang was notably handsome, the angles of his face sweetly prince-like. He sat tightly, though, like there was a sharp knife strapped to poke him in the back. Taeil decided to reserve his urge to tidy the kid’s hair—it looked like how he felt, a little.

“Did you come to apologize, or was there something else?” Taeil said, because though silence was comfortable regardless of smothering disquiet, it felt wrong to leave Kunhang afloat like this.

Kunhang clasped his hands firmly in his lap, then flicked his fingers out to fix the hems of his shorts. “I, uh. Well, everyone’s really busy and I wanted to apologize, but also I don’t know what to do.”

Yoonoh took a breath and lifted his lips from their resting spot to speak. “Did Jungwoo give you the clear?”

Kunhang’s stiff nod returned Yoonoh to the same position, and Taeil wanted to sigh, but would do that later in private—or maybe when Sicheng could roll his eyes at him and tell him to shut up. “He said I’m safe?” Kunhang said, words lilted like he wasn’t sure he heard Jungwoo right.

“Yeah,” Taeil said. “He does that. Do you know what you do? Like as a witch?”

“No.”

“Neat.” Taeil smiled, and each progressive smile seemed to marginally unwind Kunhang little by little. “It’s always fun to figure that stuff out.” 

As if he hadn’t cracked his back just a few minutes prior, Taeil cracked it again—a testament to his stress—and got up. “Well, if no one will give you a tour and explanation, I will. Let’s find your friend while we’re at it.”

Kunhang stood up so fast Taeil almost laughed. Instead, he gave the trio he was leaving behind one last look, then led Kunhang out. It was easier to breathe outside that room anyway.

* * *

Donghyuck’s body ached, heavy and frangible in a way that made his handshake embarrassingly, terrifyingly pathetic.

“Hey,” he said, and his voice was honey because nothing else about him could manage the same since waking up. “You’re Xiao…jun?” It had been taking enough effort to simply exist in proper function that he could barely remember the name that had floated around when his bulleted hyung had been lifted aboard the ship.

“It’s… it’s Xiao Dejun, actually. Are—are you okay?” Dejun held Donghyuck’s hand like he was ready to pull him forward in case he keeled over backwards. He might do just that.

“Peachy,” he said instead. “My name’s Lee Donghyuck and this is—this is…” He tried to gesture to Mark, but his vision went unexpectedly spotty. His legs protested their born function. He could barely feel his fingers. His gesture was completely lost in a pang of outcry from his shoulder. “Jesus I’m going to pass out. I need to sit down.” Mark’s hands came to steady his arm and waist as Donghyuck’s knees gave out, the ship keeling to the left in his vision and everything slanting appropriately. The firm contact between Mark and his arm burned, dragging out a hiss of pain, and the wooden slats of the ship felt unforgiving against his bones. 

Mark hovered like a smaller, anxious, human sail compared to the big, furled ones above. Dejun seemed to be trying not to babble, but it was hard to listen at the moment. “I didn’t know I could do that I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry, Donghyuck,” Dejun said, kneeling next to him with his fingers fluttering over him.

“Shut up,” Donghyuck managed. Having a filter was difficult. “It’s not you.” Because it wasn’t.

Figuring out unknown Chaoses was a shot in the dark or, sometimes, a shot in the leg—this one being the latter. First contact with Mark in the construction company building had been a wild ride. He’d caught him securely, but then something in his entire structure had fizzled out and gone limp like the energy to move had been sucked straight out of his body. It had been distinctly unpleasant, and utterly strange, and recuperating had been disorienting and desperate, since getting Mark out had been a priority and the dude was in defense mode. But it still stood that even with that encounter, no one knew quite what Mark _did_.

So whilst the entire elder crew had been in a preoccupied bind over Dongyoung with little time or thought to figure out Mark, and Renjun was generally too law-abiding to offer, and Jaemin was injured and the others had gone to bed early, Donghyuck had stayed up with Mark to help figure it out himself.

It had started out with repeating similar actions to those in the construction company, except Donghyuck held his forearms instead of sort-of embracing him.

Mark had stared at him, and then something had clicked, and Donghyuck’s grip had fallen away as his arms hung like overcooked tteokmyeon. At the time, they’d just felt detached and tingly, but with a few shakes, they were back. The rest of the night had been exploration—letting Mark figure out how to stop an attack before it hit, checking his boundaries and necessities, and generally using Donghyuck as a human dummy for science.

By the time they’d decided to finish, there had been an odd pain in Donghyuck like his limbs had developed a headache, but it was something he could disregard in favor of his bed.

But then he’d woken up like he had, where getting his body to move had taken two minutes alone, and his heart was pounding in his ears and his vision was spotty and he felt like maybe he’d unintentionally started the process of killing himself from the inside out.

So now he was on the deck floor, and he had some regrets, and this was an awful way to greet a new crew member, but he supposed they knew now that Mark could fend for himself, and that was pretty important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter ^^ Taeil is one of my favorite characters to write, so I'm thrilled to bring him out to the front for this chapter and the next.
> 
> Also, note that Lore doesn't have a quote. I thought it would be better that way, but you may rebel against my choice if you prefer.
> 
> I want to take a moment to point out that all developing romance in this fic will be slow and quiet. At this point in the story, absolutely none of the members are properly in a relationship, though many have very intimate relationships aside from romance and are leaning hard in the direction of something developing. I'm considering writing complementary stories to this after I'm done with this main fic to focus on romance. The romances here play a very important part in interactions and plot, but I cannot focus on a single pairing (or trio) enough to do justice to the nuances across time. Let me know if you'd be interested in ficlets that focus deeper in on those relationships once this is done. Also note that I've only been able to hint at a few potentials so far. There are more that I can't yet explore or simply aren't published yet (see the ones involving members who haven't shown face yet).
> 
> Thank you to Neel, Bee, and Fairy K for their interest and encouragement ♡ Thank you thank you to my readers and every comment, kudo, subscription, and bookmark. The feedback I receive makes me so excited to continue this journey!
> 
> Next update should be Saturday!


	11. Four, Three

_“The worlds come into being as follows: many bodies of all sorts move ‘by abscission from the infinite’ into a great void; they come together there and produce a single whirl, in which, colliding with one another and revolving in all manner of ways, they begin to separate apart, like to like.”_ \- Hippolytus on Leucippus

 

Taeil examined the form of his fallen dongsaeng, and the sparkle in his eyes was really not that funny.

“Don’t ask me why I decided to collapse, hyung,” Donghyuck said. “I didn’t.”

“Collapse?”

“ _Decide_ to.”

“Interesting.” Taeil smiled only briefly before crouching down and straightening Donghyuck’s shirt out so it covered the peeking brand of his boxers. “What happened, then?”

Donghyuck’s eyes pinched closed, and he took a creaky breath, and his pinky finger poked in Mark’s direction. Mark, as it was, sat cross-legged on the deck next to him, spinning a long piece of grass between his fingers and looking vaguely bereft in his Mark-like way. Dejun and Kunhang stood to the side, looking unsure in their newbie kind of way.

“I think Mark is Breakdown,” Donghyuck said.

Taeil raised his eyebrows at Mark. “Okay.”

“But like, organically. Organic breakdown. Like me kind of breakdown,” Donghyuck clarified. “Well not _my_ kind of breakdown but like breaking down a person.”

They all considered this, sea air and sun making busy work of their hair and clothes and skin, andthen eventually Dejun imposed a question. “What’s breakdown?”

“Mm.” Taeil tilted his head and sat back, letting the sunshine touch his neck and shoulders away from the shadows. “So there are four kinds of Chaos, but they’re messy categories, so sometimes things don’t fit just right. What we consider Mind deals with mental processes of the witch or the target. Or both. They make people see or perceive things differently than what’s actually happening. None of it is real.” He pointed to Dejun. “You’re probably Relativity, from what you’ve told me. Relativity is the kind of thing where you do things contrary to others’ perceived realities or the expected reality of things as we know it, but it _is_ real. So like…” Taeil rolled his neck and wrinkled his nose in thought. “… Jeno’s relativity. He can switch physical positions with people. And it’s not mental—it’s actually happening. Relative Chaos is really strange but usually very handy.

“The other two are Force and Breakdown. Force is just blunt energy, usually. Like using chaos energy to hit someone from a distance, though everyone uses it in their own particular way. Breakdown—” Taeil nodded at Mark, then gestured to both himself and Donghyuck. “—is our kind of thing. We’re a rare breed on this ship, but it deals with breaking things down on a structural or molecular level. Like Donghyuck can reduce a wall to rubble if he wants to. I do more molecular stuff, but mine’s messy and complicated so I’ll spare you.”

“It’s sick, though,” Donghyuck said, and Taeil grinned.

“But I can’t speak for Mark,” Taeil continued. “I’ve heard about someone on another crew who can take apart bodies and put them together in weird ways, but you look pretty intact to me.”

Kunhang cringed at the mental image and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking Donghyuck up and down as if to make sure.

“Yeah, no, nothing like that,” Donghyuck confirmed, and his abdomen flexed as he tried to get himself to sit up. He gave up and donned a perfectly impassive expression, which Taeil could only interpret as thinly veiled chagrin. “It’s like from the inside-out. Mark-hyung, show him.”

“No thanks,” Taeil said at the same time as Mark hesitated, and Mark looked sheepish in his Mark-like way.

“It doesn’t hurt the first time,” Donghyuck insisted. “It just feels weird.”

Taeil gave an irresolute hum. “I think I’ll just take your word for it, though? But here’s the thing. Sicheng’s out cold, and if he wasn’t, he’d still prioritize Doyoung, so you’re making me feel really bad.”

“Is everyone passing out?” Donghyuck said, a tinge of complaint just barely there.

“Mars is in retrograde,” Taeil suggested.

“No it’s not,” Dejun blurted from the side, hunched and ramrod straight all at once. “That only happens every two years and that was last year.”

The ship creaked as if to agree, the waters cutting against the hull hushed in amusement.

But then there was the smallest hiccup of a laugh from Mark, a funny, pleasant thing, and that was enough to render both Donghyuck and Taeil somewhat stunned because Mark hadn’t smiled yet in their company let alone _laughed_.

“Oh,” Donghyuck said some time after Mark’s laugh had already passed, and rather than laughing anymore, Mark’s expression was a little flustered at the abrupt silence. “Um. Okay. Well.” And it was all very eloquent. “Can—uh—can you guys help me to my room, then? Not that the ground isn’t comfy.”

Taeil suppressed a laugh and adjusted to lift and steady Donghyuck over his shoulder. Donghyuck bit back any associated pain, too befuddled to be precise about his own self-expression.

* * *

Jeno heard about Donghyuck from the grapevine that was Neo, a baffling amount of things happening upon the crew members through hearsay despite everyone being on familial speaking terms. The ship was huge, though, and there were a lot of crew members, and so the grape vine and hearsay were simply… existent. 

So he heard about Donghyuck from hearsay, and tried not to laugh when he saw him in person.

“I don’t think,” Jeno said, “I’ve ever seen you look more shitty in your life.”

There was a spectacular war of possible responses taking place in the depths of Donghyuck’s expression, but all he settled for was a very fake, very bland laugh.

“We’re going swimming,” Jeno said in reply.

“Splendid.”

“Can I take Mark?”

Donghyuck pulled a face. “He’s not a pet. If he wants to go he can.”

As it was, Donghyuck was tucked into his hammock—almost everyone preferred hammocks to beds on the ship, though Sicheng required a proper bed—and had been periodically floating into unconsciousness. He was otherwise plugged into his phone with piano covers playing, staring at the ceiling. He’d given Jeno the courtesy of him taking out an earbud, though it had hurt like hell to do so.

“I assume you can’t come,” Jeno said.

“I wouldn’t mind drowning,” Donghyuck shot back.

“Right, well. Don’t die in your sleep,” Jeno said, and fished his swimming trunks out from their clothing hatch, though he had to chuck Donghyuck’s shoes to the other side of the room in order to do so.

Their small room was pleasantly, wonderfully bright during the day so long as one of them didn’t block the portholes out with blankets or old underwear—which they were admittedly wont to do when midday naps called. Right now, their floors and walls were awash with the honey of warm evening, dripping off Donghyuck’s prone, gently swinging form.

Generally, life was easier for them than it was for their hyungs unless they begged for participation (which had resulted in Jaemin’s injury, but also in Mark). They were encouraged to study, or to learn useful skills, or to get better at their Chaos, but they rarely took part in missions and meetings if it could be helped. So, every once in a while, they could afford to go swimming when the ship was docked.

Dongyoung’s return weighed heavy, regardless of how well they were attempting to continue life as normal. Renjun, ever the mastermind, had suggested a swim if only because most things felt lighter underwater. If everyone felt like Jeno did, they’d been left bloodless and filled with stones as soon as Yuta carried a body on deck. They’d give anything for their veins to be lighter.

* * *

Renjun hung from the shrouds, one foot planted on the gunwale as the other swung outward with the sun spinning through his hair and eyes.

“Promise you’ll actually jump?” Jaemin said, smiling big as he adjusted the draw on his trunks. “Coward?”

“If you hold my hand,” Renjun said, a challenge in his eyes, “you’ll know for sure.”

Jaemin cooed, grin only widening, and climbed up to balance on the gunwale with Renjun. They both were waiting for Jeno to gather the two newcomers and everyone else generally, Jeno having lost the preceding game of rock paper scissors.

“Is that a request?” Jaemin practically glittered, and Renjun scoffed, looking down the length of the ship and away from Jaemin.

“It’s just physical contact, NaNa,” he said. “Or else you’ll never know if I jump or not.”

“Ooh, so tsundere,” Jaemin said, and took Renjun’s hand anyway. “Well, I’m holding your hand because I want to.” It was with his injured hand, though it only really got tweaky lately instead of causing actual problems. Sicheng never claimed he was perfect at what he did, but Jaemin rather believed it would heal completely whether Sicheng had doubts or not. He believed—hoped—the same for Dongyoung.

Renjun’s palm was sun-warmed in his, and if he wiggled his fingers, he could feel a writing callus on Renjun’s middle. Renjun sighed away the urge to redden and anchored himself with both feet, leaning into the rigging more fully, but allowing Jaemin’s hand to remain.

“Have you gone to see Doyoung-hyung yet?”

Jaemin’s gaze snapped from the bright horizon to Renjun. “Is he awake?”

“No,” Renjun clarified, hurried. “I don’t think so, anyway. I was just wondering.”

Jaemin parted his lips to answer that yes, kind of, when there was a familiar shriek and a full teenage body launched itself off the ship. Jaemin’s words turned into laughter instead. “Chenle!”

The splash Chenle made far below was sloppy and small, making Jaemin laugh louder. Renjun squeezed his hand on instinct, probably out of affection (he hoped out of affection), but it made him jerk in warning. “Careful,” he said, laugh dying, but before Renjun could apologize, he butted in. “Jumping time! Ready?”

“ _No?_ ” Renjun managed, insistent, but it was irrelevant anyway because the gunwale was only so wide, and his balance was only so good, and Jaemin had already jumped.

Usually he just climbed down from the rope ladder. _This_ method involved a lot more screaming.

* * *

It wasn’t until they were drying themselves out on deck after summarily initiating Kunhang and Dejun into The Comfort Zone by playful bids to drown each other that they truly talked.

At first it was just Renjun apologizing because Jeno had touched some of the wet hair away from his face and showed him his half-moon eyes, and Jaemin was trying to catch his breath like a happy labrador next to them in the shade, and he couldn’t get his earlier accident out of his head.

With the five others playing truth-or-dare, supposedly, but really just messing around with Mark watching as the backdrop, Renjun said to the summer air, “I’m sorry.”

And there was some silence—a few breaths of it, actually.

“What?” Jaemin said. 

Jeno sat up, and his squint looked kind of like his smile. “Renjun?”

“I squeezed your hand earlier and hurt you. I’m sorry,” he said.

“What?” Jaemin repeated.

“You held hands?” Jeno asked.

“Yeah, we held hands,” Renjun said, and he couldn’t help the defensiveness until Jeno’s own hands were up to profess his mistake.

“I’m not telling you not to I’m just—you know. It’s cute,” Jeno said.

“You’re jealous,” Jaemin posited.

“I’m jealous,” Jeno confirmed.

“Guys,” Renjun said, and crossed his arm over his face because he could and it was convenient. “Please.”

Jaemin’s fingers dug into the bend of his arm to pry it away, but Renjun’s pride was stronger than Jaemin’s nosiness. “Are you blushing?”

“No, I’m trying to apologize and you’re ignoring me.”

Jaemin sat back, or at least stopped digging between Renjun’s face and arms—he wasn’t willing to check for confirmation just yet. “Don’t worry about it, Injunnie. I was just happy to hold your hand.”

And so his arm would stay put.

Even with the sound of Jeno leaning across Renjun’s body to push Jaemin playfully backward. Especially when Jeno decided to _lie_ across him because he didn’t know the meaning of personal boundaries.

But he ignored the skin contact because Jeno was harmless and his mind was busy. “I’m really glad you guys are okay.”

He felt the shift of Jeno’s abdomen against his as he sucked in a breath. “What do you mean?”

“Like. With the mission,” Renjun said and dropped his arm finally, feeling a lot less lightheaded from flirtatious blindsides and a lot more sober with nagging regret. “I felt really useless, you know? And I got so scared when I heard gunshots and I’m just—” He hadn’t expected his throat to tighten, and Jeno wasn’t exactly making it easy to breathe, and the sky was a really bright blue. “—really glad you’re okay.”

Again, the two boys left him in silence, but he could feel Jeno’s skin against his, so it didn’t feel so detached this time.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been losing sleep over the memory these past two nights, even though he was witness to both Jeno and Jaemin falling into the van. Donghyuck and Jisung being the only escapees at first, Mark aside, had made him feel like he’d been drilled through the stomach at the time, and then the second gunshot had come over his earpiece. The inside of his cheek was healed by now, but Mark’s first exposure to him had definitely been him trying not to have a panic attack in the driver’s seat.

In his periphery, he could see Jaemin tilt his head, wisps of dried hair funny and sticking up, and the rest of his hair shining wetly in the light and he scooted out of the shade and toward Renjun. “I didn’t… think to talk to you about it. I’m sorry.”

Renjun swallowed as Jeno lifted himself off and offered his hand to pull Renjun to a sit. “It’s okay,” Renjun said to the apology and tried to breathe properly while sitting up. The skin of his stomach was tacky from Jeno’s sheer humidity, and the slats of the deck were damp from where Renjun had lifted himself. The whole ship felt kind of hazy. It felt strange to say things out loud with the sun up and out in the open.

“Sorry we ignored you over the earpiece,” Jeno said, eyes not crescented, wet hair dripping onto his nose still. It was a nice thought because maybe he’d hated being just a voice while his closest friends were getting shot at.

The undersides of his eyes were itching, now, and Renjun didn’t like that, but he also didn’t want to rub there in case it would be a tell. “It’s just that hyung came back and that could have been either of you, and I was just sitting in the van like an idiot—”

“Injunnie,” Jaemin cut in, “someone had to drive the getaway car.” His smile was bright and crinkly around the eyes, and his uninjured hand touched Renjun’s bare knee. His index finger was crooked—always had been.

“I know that,” Renjun said. “I know that, I just—”

“I was glad you weren’t there.” 

Renjun’s mouth closed, words he’d meant to say shoved right down his throat as he stared at Jeno. “What?”

Jeno raked his fingers through his hair and shook it out, little droplets scattering. The deep light of the sun cut around his angles and edges, breathing around his softer curves and across the bridge of his nose.It struck through his eyes and turned his irises to sand, and perhaps neither Renjun nor Jaemin were accustomed to paying so much attention to him at once, but for now he had their attention because he’d said something unexpected and baffling. “It was hard enough trying to keep track of everyone and also keep Jaemin safe in that brawl. Having both of you there would have made that my worst nightmare, I think.” He took a breath, and his crescent eyes were back. “So I’m glad you were in the car.”

The deep flush crawling up Jaemin’s neck made it kind of obvious that the two of them hadn’t talked about the event either, or else the profession of protectiveness wouldn’t fluster him. “So mature, Jeno-yah,” Jaemin managed, but it was kind of squeaky, and through the punishing errancies of his heart, Renjun laughed.

“Well,” Renjun said, and his breath felt heavy in his chest, but he also felt a little lighter. “Well,” he began again, and tried to stifle this bizarre desire to keep laughing, and Jaemin was looking at him like _that_ and they both got out, right? “Let’s—let’s go have lunch?”

“Mm!” Jaemin chirped, perceptibly relieved. “Yes!”

And Jeno laughed at them both, lagging behind as they picked themselves up and scrammed for the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has hands down one of my favorite scenes I've written so far and I'm so happy to finally publish it, though I deeply apologize for updating so late. It's technically Sunday now where I am, which means I lied for when I would update again—Saturday was a little hectic, though, so don't lower your expectations of my honesty too drastically, please ^^
> 
> It'll be handy for everyone to remember the types of Chaos that Taeil outlines in this chapter, but not essential. If you feel inclined to write them down or memorize or continually return to this chapter or whatever, you're more than welcome, though! 
> 
> Mind, Breakdown, Relativity, and Force. The key differences are that between Mind and Relativity, Mind's effects aren't real while Relativity's are, though they both tend to seem equally implausible. Between Breakdown and Force, Breakdown is the metaphorical equivalent of taking down the supports of a building and making it fall that way versus Force, which is basically just a wrecking ball taken to the walls.
> 
> For those who have been revealed (or at least blatantly so):  
> Sicheng: breakdown ("knitting")  
> Jungwoo: mind ("risk")  
> Mark: breakdown ("slack")  
> Jeno: relativity ("displacement")  
> Donghyuck: breakdown ("scatter")  
> Jaemin: force ("reaction")  
> Jisung: mind ("trust")
> 
> Sicheng being breakdown might seem strange, but all aspects of Chaos have a measure of order within them as well—just as nature is chaotic, but still has order. The laws of Chaos contain and allow order to exist, and Sicheng primarily takes advantage of that allowance for his focus.
> 
> Also, the person who can break someone apart and reorder them canonically exists. He's the captain of another crew. I was originally going to write about them instead of NCT, but then... I didn't. Maybe someday!
> 
> If you have questions about Chaos or otherwise, I will be more than happy to clarify.
> 
> Next update will be Wednesday! Please consider leaving a comment, though I understand if you would rather not. I love to hear your thoughts, and I will always respond!


	12. Onwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember: They _always_ travel in pairs.

** (Memory **

_“Laden with memories on my way home / I saw the dusk slowly snuff out the sun.”_ \- Hồ Dzếnh, “Mầu Cây Trong Khói,” translated by Thomas D. Le

 

The farmer’s market sprawled lengthwise, tightly slotted into the downtown parking spaces and cozy against the brick-and-glass-faced shops. There were soaps and honey, fishcake stalls and pajeon, a whole table laid with rainbow chard and radish, hand-woven rugs, all stalls very colorful and very busy. The sky stretched above the blocked-off street, wide and disrupted by scattered tree canopies and clouds as the voices of the crowd carded through the leaves. A car honked with agitation on a perpendicular road, as if maddened that the street was blocked off.

Donghyuck had to keep his wits about him, having been bumped into twice in the span of fifteen minutes, and the second person had smelled like they’d been dunked in a vat of tea tree oil. He hiked his bag up and wove through bodies until he could blurt out an, “Imo!” to the lady who sold eggs.

“Donghyuck-ah!”

He loved the way his neighbor auntie’s wrinkles shaped her eyes, how they made them sag a little, but that they glittered. Her hands were worn and masculine in their largeness, and she could hold three eggs in one hand comfortably, and he loved that about her.

“Why are you stopping by now? You know you can pop down the street anytime,” she said, watching as Donghyuck fished the empty egg carton out from under the perilla leaves and snow pears he’d already accumulated.

“Mom wanted me to get some of Mr. Kim’s teas,” Donghyuck excused. “And you’re always here anyway.” When he was younger, he used to catch frogs near her pond, get up to his knees and elbows in mud, stinking to high heaven. Her husband would spray him off with a hose and call him a darling menace, and then she would tempt him to revisit with offers of egg tarts. She held tender memories in her egg-laden hands.

But as he smiled up at her when she passed the full carton over, her gaze was elsewhere, tracking something over his shoulder with the same expression she would save for the posse of girls who had bought her produce to egg a neighbor’s house.

“What are _they_ doing here?”

Donghyuck peered over and locked in on a trio of people in black—how they could bear those colors in the rosy sun was beyond him. At least they wore sunglasses as they scanned the crowd like a bunch of badly-hidden spies. The letters ‘ELE’ were stitched in yellow on their backs. 

Donghyuck sidled over for another customer who seemed to be concerned with them as well. The guy’s voice was as hushed as one could afford in a crowd, but his dimples were polite. “Do they come here often?”

“No, thank god.” His auntie made a disgruntled sound. “What’ll they do if they find someone? Break up the whole market?” She stuffed eggs into the customer’s carton. “They make me more uneasy than a ragtag group of radical environmentalists, that’s for sure. Poor kids.”

As Donghyuck reached for the envelope of money his mother had given him, he paused, an odd tickle in his throat climbing up the back of his tongue. The trio of ELE were approaching someone who seemed to be a lanky college student in worn-out sandals at Mr. Kim’s tea table. The customer next to Donghyuck was tensing visibly, and just as there was an odd ripple through the ELE trio, Donghyuck’s throat squeezed, closing.

He felt like he was suffocating, and his auntie made a sound of surprise as his hand that had held the carton of eggs became sticky and wet, a mess of broken-up yolk and carton at his feet. There was yelling all around, but he couldn’t breathe, the static of panic pounding at the fluttering walls of his lungs.

Then there were hands on him, hard and rough, and Donghyuck instinct was to struggle because his breath was coming back but the grips were bruising. The black lenses of the ELE glinted at him as tried to wriggle away, and then his jaw burst with a different kind of pain, and he could hear auntieamong other yells, and he was on the ground from the blow, and he could breathe but not see for tears. His mouth warned him of blood, and he was being dragged, his bare skin abrading against the street, and all he could do was scream. Until he couldn’t, because he’d been kicked in the stomach, breath lost, pain dizzying. There was a gunshot. He was sobbing now, and auntie was no longer yelling.

The most overwhelming sounds ceased, the hands were gone. He was dragging in breath against the road, curled into himself for his own shakiness. His mouth was bleeding, and he hurt all over.

The next touches on him were kind, voice strong and soft.

“Hey. Hey, it’s alright. You’re alright. I’m going to lift you, okay? You’re alright.”

His hands were sticky with egg and pavement as he clung to the shirt of the person who lifted him. They smelled like a blown-out power socket, but magnolias, too, gentle and sweet.

** End) **

 

 

“万事俱备，只欠东风。” - _Romance of the Three Kingdoms_

 

Dejun sat on his makeshift dining chair—a box, as it were—legs crossed and chopsticks pinching rice grains as something banter-like drifted around him.

“Listen, it rolls off the tongue, I think. ‘Dejun’ is such a dark name, but _Xiaojun?_ ”

Dejun propped his jaw in his palm and smiled at Kunhang, who was currently mudslinging against his biological, perfectly-fine name. He spoke with his hands, face animated, and just about anyone could smear against his name if they so felt if it meant his friend was feeling more comfortable.

“You’ve been calling me that for years, now. I didn’t realize my name bothered you,” Dejun said, feeling silly in that anxious, desperate way he had tried to shake off all day. It felt like going to a new school, but more important and therefore worse. He had to keep reminding himself to unclench his jaw.

Mark’s chopsticks paused and he did that very strange silent-and-still thing before looking Dejun in the eyes. He wasn’t sure if Mark could do anything without incredible intensity. “Everyone has nicknames on this ship. Xiaojun could be yours.”

“Do they?” Kunhang said, then looked around the rest of them before looking back at Mark. Everyone but the older members was gathered around. And Donghyuck. Donghyuck was still sleeping off whatever Mark had done to him like a full-body hangover. “What’s yours?”

Mark hesitated, eyes widening. “Mark. Kind of. My birth name is Minhyung.” The name was pretty, somehow, delicate in a way Mark both was and wasn’t, but it was also, apparently, the cause for astonishment.

“Mark isn’t your _name_?” Chenle stood up abruptly, almost overturning his bowl of rice, and Mark flinched, his chopsticks pinching hard in a jerk of muscle. “Does Hyuck know?” Chenle looked more excited than anything, and Jisung was laughing, tugging Chenle down with a murmur of _“You scared him, Lele!”_ and that answered the question of what Chenle’s nickname was.

Chenle sat down apologetically and Mark blinked a few times as if it would slough away a tension he hadn’t been prepared for, and definitely didn’t want. “No, Mark is my name. It’s my Canadian name. Almost no one calls me Minhyung.”

Jaemin seemed to be rolling the name around on his tongue along with a bite of kimchi and rice. He swallowed. “My nickname is NaNa. For my family name.”

“I’m Jwitol,” Jisung volunteered, then put his big hands up to mimic ears. “For mouse.”

“He’s got a weak heart,” Chenle said and grinned like the fact brought him a grand amount of glee. Jisung only nodded in agreement, though, and allowed Chenle to steal a portion of his boiled egg.

Though they appeared to be attempting to hide it, Dejun saw Jeno’s arm shift as he squeezed Renjun’s hand. Dejun wouldn’t call himself particularly perceptive—a good many things were lost on him, and he had to _try_ to learn and understand some things—but he had seen Jeno take Renjun’s hand somewhere between dishing out rice and taking his first bite.

Renjun had turned a very delicate shade of pink around his ears, and while physical affection wasn’t a taboo thing among most guys Dejun knew, that reaction alone had made him feel oddly just a little more at ease.

He knew why, of course. It was the same reason he and Kunhang had latched onto each other like outcast pigeons.

“I’m just Jen,” Jeno said. “Or No-Jam sometimes. Because I’m not funny.”

“Oh,” Kunhang said. “You seem perfectly fine to me,” he continued kindly, and Renjun laughed, because even to Dejun, the way Kunhang said it made his perceived lack of humor sound like a disease.

Jaemin sat forward, grinning as he brushed his hair out of his eyes. It seemed like every expression he owned seemed a little cunning. If not cunning then downright flirtatious. It was oddly charming in a very disorienting way.Dejun had been told that Jaemin, Jeno, Renjun, and Donghyuck were all Kunhang’s age, and he was trying not to be disappointed. “It's not true. We just like to tease him.”

Almost like it hadn't been a confession, Jeno smiled, but he smiled often.

“I’m Injun,” Renjun shrugged. “Nothing special. Donghyuck is Haechan. It means ‘full sun,’ which he insists is because he resembles the namesake.”

Dejun had to silently admit that at least how he’d seen him, Donghyuck resembled a human made of soggy lye soap rather than the sun, but he’d reserve his judgement for when the boy was better. 

Dejun finally leaned to take a bite of his dinner with this thought when Mark whipped around in his chair, angled like a creature both alert and threatened, and everyone looked around at the entrance of the dining room.

Leaning there was Dongyoung, exceptionally pale and lank, his good shoulder pressed heavily into the wood doorway. Seeing him like this, with visual bandages and discomfort flitting around his big, slanted eyes made whatever was left of Dejun’s stomach dissolve into an acid pool.

He’d done this. To him.

“Dejun,” Dongyoung croaked, and his smile was close-lipped, but there. The side of his head thudded against the doorway as he closed his eyes for a moment, then leveled his gaze on Mark and Kunhang. “I don’t know you two.” His eyes flicked to Mark reaching for Jisung and grabbing his wrist so hard his knuckles turned white.

Jisung was bewildered for just a moment before his lips parted and the action clicked. “He’s real. That’s Dongyoung-hyung.”

For a moment, Mark looked like he was going to cry then and there out of some indeterminable emotion, but then it passed and he loosened his grip. “I’m Mark,” he said, and from the corner of Dejun’s attention, he saw Jaemin smile with something like pride, perhaps.

Dongyoung shifted his gaze back to Kunhang. “Then you must be Wong Kunhang. Are you okay?” Despite his injuries, his voice was melted down with true concern, exhausted concern, but true.

Kunhang had to swallow, and then he smiled and kept his eyes bright in a similar way to how he would practice for an interview. “Yes, hyung.”

Dongyoung’s eyes closed again, face drawn. “Good.”

And then the situation dawned on Dejun, and he blurted, “Why are you up? Hyung, why are you _walking_?” He stumbled to his feet because this mattered to him, because he’d messed up, because he’d demanded that Dongyoung collect Kunhang before he would go back with him, and then things had ended up like this.

The older witch looked surprised when his eyes opened. “I need to find Taeyong. I need to tell him about the device at your place.” He indicated Kunhang with a pale wince, and Kunhang winced in turn, an unease at being associated, probably.

“You can’t be walking,” Dejun insisted, and he almost let his breathing get away from him, but his lungs felt cold and if he took in more air they’d freeze. “You were shot in the leg.”

Dongyoung had the mind to process that he was being chastised by a dongsaeng, if the pinch of irritation between his eyebrows was anything to go off of. “Oh believe me, I know.” The bite felt too strong, and Dejun blanched, could feel his blood drain and the physical need to collapse back on his box.

Back in Shanghai, he had waited on the bench for what had felt like hours, and his skin had itched the longer Dongyoung hadn’t come back. When he’d received Kunhang’s text that he was going home—that he wasn’t already _there_ like he ought to have been, that Dejun had sent Dongyoung into a volatile pit—he’d thrown up in a nearby bush as his world had reeked with sudden fear and shame.

“I’m sorry,” he just managed to moan, and he reached for Dongyoung instead. “Let me take you to him. You really—you really can’t be walking on that leg. Please, hyung.”

The silence of the room behind him was deafening, and he felt stupid because most of them had known Dongyoung for longer and were probably just as worried as he was. The guilt wasn’t there, though. It couldn’t be.

“Please,” Dejun repeated, and there was something difficult in Dongyoung’s eyes, but his lips thinned, and he lifted his arm, allowing Dejun to be an assisting crutch. The motion overtook him like a wave from the ocean surrounding them, thawing in the force of his relief.

Dejun cast an apologetic look to his hoped-for friends, begging them to forgive him, though they might not know for what reason. “I think he’s in his room,” he murmured to Dongyoung, ducking under his arm, and he wondered if Dongyoung might ever trust him.

* * *

The knock on the door was far too timid to be just anyone, but it was damned lucky Donghyuck couldn’t get himself to sleep anymore or he never would have been able to hear it.

“Yeah?” he strained, but his neck pinched uncomfortably when he tried to lift his head to project his voice.

“Can I come in?”

Donghyuck allowed himself to smile, and maybe even to laugh though his abdomen tried to kill him for it. “Only because you asked nicely!” If it were anyone else knocking, he would have been sarcastic, but there was a door between him and Mark, and Mark struggled enough separating reality from fiction even when he had his senses to aid him.

He managed to watch Mark slip into the room from his periphery, since his neck refused to assist him unless absolutely necessary. His hyung held a bowl of food and his eyes held a ridiculous amount of concern. “Thank you for letting me in,” he said.

“Mark-hyung,” Donghyuck laughed (he didn’t care if it hurt). “Not only is this also your room, but you can barge in whenever you want. No one knocks on this ship.” 

Mark looked almost chastised by Donghyuck’s words, and honestly Mark was the most bewildering creature Donghyuck had ever met. 

The others had said that Mark could be difficult to act natural around because he was strange and quiet and fragile. But Mark had more words, had opened up to Donghyuck considerably, and he’d absolutely devastated Donghyuck’s physical capacity from just a short period of sparring, so he reckoned none of those judgments were exactly true. He was convinced of Mark’s versatility. It hadn’t been more than two days since they’d rescued him and he was already doing so much better.

Donghyuck shifted his attention to the food Mark held. “That better be for me.”

Mark searched his eyes, bowl held in his lap. “And if it isn’t?”

Donghyuck had to clamp down hard on the urge to laugh and purposefully pouted instead. “Feed me.”

Mark hesitated. “That’s awkward, though.”

“I can’t move?”

Donghyuck tolerated the scrutiny that he didn’t deserve, especially since this was at least fifty percent Mark’s fault. “I don’t believe that.”

He tried to look both appalled and petty, which he wasn’t, but he _was_ hungry and it _did_ hurt to move. “Guess I’ll starve, then.”

“My dad told me that if I didn’t move when I was sore I’d get stiff,” Mark said, politely ignoring his dramatics, and stood up to place the bowl on the cabinet. He held a hand out for Donghyuck. “I’ll help you stand.”

The pang of family being mentioned was something Donghyuck always had to fight against, so he redirected his attention. “Were you a jock in Canada or something?

Mark considered Donghyuck’s choice of words. “Only if ice skating makes me a jock.”

That was a lot to take in—enough that Donghyuck simply accepted Mark’s hand to pull him out of the hammock even though he had to bite his own tongue to keep from whimpering. Mark caught him when he stumbled, his legs aching, body still heavy, flinching, shaking. Mark smelled like the ocean and sunshine and a little like kimchi, like swimming and dinner.

“You really did a number on me. Shit.” He didn’t say it to guilt him—the pain simply alarmed him every time—but Mark apologized under his breath anyway and helped lead Donghyuck to sit on the cabinet, moving the bowl and chopsticks for him.

“We can stretch together if you want. After you’re done,” Mark offered.

His fingers didn’t feel like his own as he gripped his chopsticks. Really, his body felt like it had been filled to the brim with lactic acid, and his hand shook as he went to try to eat.

“Mark?”

“Hm?”

“How do you know there was another Bait with you?”

Just as he feared, he watched as Mark’s eyes went dark and distant, his body stilling. He knew it was a trigger to imply his captivity, but he had to ask.

“Mark,” he demanded, not letting his hyung dwell if he could help it, and witnessed Mark jerking back into reality with a sharp inhale. It was only a moment of pure lucidity before Mark’s gaze drifted to a corner of the room. Whatever he saw there made him squeeze his eyes closed. 

Donghyuck let Mark take a few deep breaths, but when he flinched, Donghyuck interrupted again, louder this time. “It’s just us in the room, Mark. Earth to Mark.”

Mark’s next breath was more ragged, but when he opened his eyes, his attention was fully on Donghyuck, intense, though trying very hard to mask panic.

“What were you seeing?” Donghyuck asked, and almost forgot entirely about the ache in his body.

“The room.”

Donghyuck swallowed, confused. “Did you ever see it?”

Mark shook his head. “I just know its size. Its smell.” He took another shuddering breath. “They couldn’t block my senses totally. Sometimes I could hear and talk to someone else, and I didn’t know them. The brain can’t… make things up from nothing, right?”

Donghyuck’s mind fluttered over what he’d heard about dreams and how even if someone seemed like a stranger, they were definitely someone the dreamer had seen before. “I’m not sure, Mark. You could have conjured up a cashier from a fried chicken place you visited just once. I don’t know.”

The silence weighed heavier than Donghyuck’s limbs. He managed to take a bite of the food, even if it was only half of what he’d aimed to get into his mouth.

“His name was in Chinese,” Mark said. “I’ve never… known Chinese. I mean I’ve heard it, but I just—”

“I’ll talk to them,” Donghyuck interrupted. “It’d be dangerous for a rescue mission, but I’ll see what they think, okay?”

Mark was almost always intense, but this particular look he gave Donghyuck made him feel like he was adrift in an even deeper plane than this one. Like Mark saw him differently than he thought he could be seen at all.

Because of it, he almost missed Mark’s thanks entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really worried about this chapter, which is why I'm updating in the evening. Bee read through it and didn't make a single comment because they were immersed, though, and I consider that very high praise. I hope it immersed you guys, too.
> 
> 万事俱备，只欠东风 is a Chinese idiom that roughly translates to: everything is ready except the east wind. It's a quote drawn from a romanticized rendition of the Battle of Red Cliffs (also known as the Battle of Chibi). There are a lot of meanings and nuances, and it may be best to simply read about the battle, but it refers to the idea of being prepared for everything, and yet something still comes to ruin your plans. You cannot prepare for something you did not see coming.
> 
> Also, to note about nojam—I'm of the opinion it's not our joke to make, but it is a joke that has been made. Because of that, it's something I've left in, especially as it seems to have been an influence to the way Jeno considers himself. They are young here and all have their pre-pirate affectations.
> 
> Once again, please consider leaving a comment ♡ and please feel free to ask questions! I'll be delighted to hear your thoughts—I promise.
> 
> Next update will be Saturday!
> 
> 7/31 update: I got a twitter @speckledsolana. I'm totally new to this, but I think it's where I'll talk about writing or update you guys if my schedule changes. Absolutely feel free to follow! I'm such a newbie that I can't afford to bite (not that I would anyway)!


	13. Expletive, Oath

_“. . . the whole area round the earth is moist, but being dried by the sun the part that is exhaled makes winds and turnings of the sun and moon, they say, while that which is left is sea . . .”_ \- Aristotle

 

There was an unspoken rule that the ship be quiet when the sun was properly gone—that it was loud only if everyone was there to make it loud, and otherwise quiet as the dirt and plants and critters of the ship’s flesh slept.

Perhaps that is why when Kunhang finally spoke, he did so softly.

“Thank you for carrying me,” he said, his Mandarin warm and familiar, “when I passed out.”

Kun looked over his shoulder as he strung up the other side of the new hammock, eyes flicking over Kunhang’s face. “It’s not a problem. I’m glad you’re okay.” Kunhang walked like a baby duck, still adjusting to the ship, when he approached to fiddle with the ropes of what would be his bed. Kun could almost feel the flick of a glance the boy spared his expression, measuring and polite.

The room they had cleared out for Kunhang and Dejun was small—just as small as anyone’s quarters, though one of the last unoccupied rooms they had to spare. Kun had informed him that they generally kept two crew per room just because they had the space for it, and they could certainly fit about three to four hammocks per room, but two was friendly.

There was very little that was unfriendly about the ship itself, strange and wild as it was. It had a peaceful, familiar consciousness to it—just as an undisturbed forest or a secluded bay might. Though the specific flora and fauna might be different, nature somehow felt the same all around the world. It was the smallest amount Kun could ask from Chaos Relative when he could no longer visit home.

“Can I ask a question, Kun-ge?”

Kunhang had a very animated face, from what Kun could tell—worse than Taeyong—and it made it difficult to keep his distance. Kunhang was obviously heartfelt in just about anything he had done on the ship so far. He had plunged into the didis like someone desperate and shining, like they hadn’t tugged him from a scene of possible death, out of school, out of home, out of life as he’d known it. He held himself like a prostrated wolf cub, pleading to be accepted.

And it wasn’t that Kun didn’t want to accept him. It was more complicated than just that.

“Of course,” he said, but leaned down to pick up the pillow for Kunhang in order to break eye contact. It was soft, the cover made of rayon, and was the color of elkhorn coral.

He could almost hear Kunhang swallow. “How can I figure out what I am? What I do?”

Just out the port window, he heard the beginnings of rain. It would probably be gentle, summery, quiet.

Kun placed the pillow in the hammock, then the sheets, before moving to the second set to hang. He wanted to close his eyes, collect his thoughts, and breathe a little, but he felt a responsibility for this child from Macau, tugged from Shanghai and life as he knew it. “It’s not easy for everyone. Not everyone is bright and flashy or very obvious.” He swallowed the urge to share his own experience—the confusion, the learning curve. _It’s stressful_ , he didn’t say. “A lot of Chaos are touch-based or rely on focus. Some require specific conditions.” Kunhang helped him with this hammock, having seen what he’d done earlier, lean arms visible from the tank he’d borrowed from Donghyuck.

They’d have to go shopping again.

His words mulled between them as the summer shower continued to say hello against the vitreous membrane of the window.

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

Kun glanced up, then regretted it, so he secured his end of the hammock and tried to will himself to take his time. “Everything we do is dangerous.” Kunhang had to not only know, but realize that truth. Know that Donghyuck couldn’t move this morning, know that they were mostly isolated in the middle of another plane for a reason, know that they only had each other, know that Dongyoung had almost died, and realize that none of it was a fluke.

He wished Kunhang had hesitated for longer with his next question, for it gripped his stomach and pulled and _hurt_. “Do you hate me?”

For the mere handful of hours Kunhang had been on the ship, he’d been vibrant, apologetic, polite. Dejun, too, was practically bleeding for a smile.

Kun bit his tongue and told himself to be honest, if only because he didn’t want someone so close to home thinking he was hated. “I just feel sorry for you,” he said, words tight in his throat. This pillow was green, faded, perhaps a spare. His legs still ached from running for his life. “Breakfast is in the morning. If you wake up early enough, you can help,” he said, knowing full well he’d probably see both Dejun and Kunhang in the kitchen first thing in the morning. Just because of that.

* * *

Because Yuta was in the know, he’d sicced Ten onto Taeyong as soon as he’d had to step away because Ten? Ten was a good cuddler. He didn’t _look_ like one because he was bony and annoying, but he was.

He’d thrown himself onto Taeyong, pinned him there, and told him he thought too much because even if Taeyong already knew that, it wouldn’t hurt to know it again.

“I _know_ that,” Taeyong said, and Ten grinned as he wriggled into a comfier position. In truth, Yuta had simply left to get water, but had intercepted Dongyoung and Dejun instead. Ten, just a bystander, was the one who was sent to go get water as Yuta handled a mess he’d judged Taeyong would maybe have a breakdown over. So Ten was a pawn, but if he had to be one, he’d be the best at it.

When Ten didn’t grace his complaint with a response, Taeyong relaxed, soothed already, almost, and he moved his hands to settle them on Ten’s back.

“You’re accruing a whole lot of kids,” Ten said when he decided to speak again, and laughed at the physical response Taeyong had to the reminder. A full-body protest and then pout.

“You’re one of them,” Taeyong griped, and turned his face to the side in a bid to shun him. Instead, he simply watched the rain outside his window. The water pittered there, serene and soft, and if they listened closely enough, they could maybe even hear the summer wind through the trees. “Do the others like them?”

Ten thought back to witnessing half of his crew drag themselves on deck, sopping wet and laughing, sporting sunburns and red faces. It had almost been difficult to pick the two new boys out from the others, Ten’s only assist being a good amount of months, if not close to years, of knowing the little ones. Even if they weren’t so little anymore. “Yeah, I’d say so. Though I don’t know about Hyuck.”

Taeyong’s eyebrows furrowed. “What’s wrong with Hyuck?”

“See,” Ten said, and tried not to laugh, “this is what happens when you hole yourself up and don’t talk to anyone.” Taeyong made an injured sound. “Hyuckie apparently took it upon himself to figure out Mark’s Chaos and now he’s bedridden.”

He had to tangle his fingers in the ropes of Taeyong’s hammock in order to keep his captain from bodily throwing him out of it in some sort of animalistic panic. “He’s _what?_ ” Taeyong said, voice going high and painful in the way it did when someone dared to steal from his stash of soap replacements.

“He’s fine,” Ten said, “I promise. Just a little sore and whiny.” Taeyong relaxed only in the way a cat did when they were trying to convince you they weren’t actually going to flee the room. Ten kept his grip on the hammock. “Apparently Mark can like, break down an action before or while it happens. Like break down your muscle movement.”

Taeyong grunted.

“He’s fine,” Ten repeated, firmer this time, and lifted himself a little to give Taeyong a pointed look. “Can you relax for once? Your crew is perfectly capable, I promise.”

There was a flush of some protesting emotion coloring Taeyong’s neck, but he avoided eye contact, which meant he knew Ten was right. Carefully, Ten disentangled himself and scooped himself out of the hammock as Taeyong lay limp in abject dejection. “Hyuck’s going to be fine, Doyoung’s going to be fine, and so are the new kids. The boys are kind, and they’re talented, and they know what they’re doing.”

The only response he earned for his eloquence was a long exhale through Taeyong’s nose, but it would do.

Ten picked up his shoes and smiled at Taeyong, having done his part for comfort but needing to sleep in his own room. He needed to do his own processing. Talk to Kun, nurse the bruise on his face, maybe even sit in the warm rain for a bit to remind himself why they did any of this at all. Why they couldn’t do anything else.

As he slipped out the door, the ship rocked beneath and around them, gentle and forever.

* * *

The device beeped in the bottom of Yuta’s stomach, beeping like the expletives being beeped out on a television program, spotting his insides with blood, beeping like death in morse code.

His hands shook as he held his face, as he cursed himself for being an idiot, for not _thinking_. The device, driving him insane the longer he sat, imaginary and so loud his hands just wouldn’t stop shaking, didn’t grace him the benefit of beeping out his internal swears. It only steadily ate him through, beeping, then screaming.

And then he breathed.

Because that was enough.

He sucked in air like a lost child because he _was_.

He stifled the noise because he would only allow his imagination a short amount of time of enslaving him before he made it his own again. It had power, but he was the owner, and like a dog he would make it sit.

“I’m fine,” he said aloud so that Dongyoung and Dejun might believe him. He moved his hands from his face and took both of them back in, real. Not imaginary. “Sorry I just… needed a moment.” Moments didn’t come often, but Dongyoung wasn’t too much of a stranger to them, and now Dejun wasn’t either.

“Are you okay?” Dejun said anyway, not convinced. He was pretty in an illegal kind of way—not unlike Taeyong. The strains of warm light from the ship dappled across his limbs, threading through his ocean-stiff hair. He looked like he’d spent months onboard rather than only so long as to make a few vivid, fever-dream-like memories.

For the first time, Yuta smiled at Dejun. To reassure him but also because Dejun hadn’t deservedhis harshness in the beginning. Everything seemed different in retrospect, and so Yuta could and would forgive himself, but he would also think twice next time, hoping that there would never be a next time.

Dejun seemed surprised and mollified all at once, hugging his knees a little less tightly as he sat scrunched on the box next to Dongyoung. They’d climbed into the hull when the rains had started, but there wasn’t a big difference between the hull and the deck apart from the floor above their heads. Plants that preferred shade lived down where they were, and roots that were exposed tangled around their sides like intricate adornments. It was warm and fragrant with earth and water and living, breathing, sleeping creatures.

Except for them, of course. They were very much awake.

“There’s no way we can go back,” Yuta said. They had to keep talking about it even though the world was asleep.

Dongyoung shook his head, mildly only because of his injuries, or lack of energy, or because the situation didn’t call for sharp edges. “Not if his host parents were active ELE. Plus you called on them.”

“Right,” Yuta sighed. “I remember.”

“Is there—” Dejun began, fingertips pinching into the bare skin of his shins. “—is there anything we can do?”

The wish was heavy in the air like ripped silk billowing among the three of them.

“Not unless we want to take a big risk,” Yuta said. “The device might not even be there anymore. It’s been a full day, and it would be a suicide mission, probably.” They’d almost lost Dongyoung. To actually, properly take a known and likely lethal risk would be something that no one would do. “Knowing is enough to save our asses.” 

Yuta leant his head against an especially firm root, the thing digging through from ceiling to floor and continuing even further below. On the other side, all the initials of the crew up until Mark were carved, pale and sweet. 

The silence sat with them for a little longer before Dongyoung stirred with a wince. “Sicheng might wake up soon.”

Again, Yuta smiled, expression humorous despite being thin. “Wouldn’t want to be you.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Dongyoung snipped, but it was less than a gentle flick. Not only was he weak, Yuta knew Dongyoung loved him, and his bites were mild—sweet, even, now that he knew he could have lost him.

He let them leave before he could get himself to move, clearing out the rest of the beeping from his stomach and veins. A contraption, a tracker, a demon more or less, that could sense a realized witch even before they activated.

It could kill them.

It might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Really_ trying to get the hang of this Twitter thing, but I just realized that I didn't even post the link to my fic like a FOOL. Anyway feel free to follow me. I'll talk about my writing and other misc there. You can find me @specsolana
> 
> More relevantly, maybe, I'm so glad I could give Kun a real section. I'm really trying my best to juggle everyone evenly and give them the attention they deserve. If anyone wants to complain about lack of visibility for a certain members, I'll give you that right. Sometimes I don't realize they haven't significantly shown up in 6 chapters until I do my chapter count. Have faith in me trying, though! And, of course, sometimes it's not feasible to jump to another POV when, for instance, Doyoung's on death's door.
> 
> Next chapter really will be Wednesday of next week—I got used to Tuesdays, for some reason, and updated early. My forgetfulness has stolen a day of writing from me. Ch 14 finally gives time to Johnny and Jaehyun, and it's definitely a favorite, so see you then!
> 
> As always, please consider leaving a comment. I love them and you.


	14. Constellation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that Hendery and Kunhang are the same person! *a note mostly for the handful of friends reading who don't actually know NCT/WayV

** (Memory **

_“They, all alike, many though they be and other star in other path, are drawn across the heavens always through all time continually. But the Axis shifts not a whit, but unchanging is for ever fixed, and in the midsts it holds the earth in equipoise, and wheels the heaven itself around.”_ \- Aratus of Soli

 

**To: Hendery**

_Do it._

 

**From: Hendery**

_absolutely not_

 

**To: Hendery**

_Won’t know if he swings until you ask him_

_I recited my love poem in front of the class for you_

_What more do you want from me_

 

**From: Hendery**

_legit never asked you to do that_

 

Dejun tilted his head back to laugh, a breathless, soundless thing. It was 47 minutes past midnight—he couldn’t exactly let loose a whole cackle even if he were prone to that kind of laugh in the first place.

Slipping his phone back into his jacket pocket, he continued walking along Haixu Road, watching the few cars and trucks out late zip along the S20 with bright lights and invisible streams of gas. His mother always told him to not take such long walks, and Kunhang would swear up and down that the elusive poetry muse simply wasn’t worth walking around past midnight, but he couldn’t help but allow himself at least one night a week for this kind of thing. Yuqi said he was lucky he was a boy, but that still didn’t mean he didn’t have pepper spray in his pocket next to his charged phone. He wasn’t an idiot—his pen just flowed better when he could hardly see. When he was nearly alone with just the black sky and the faint smell of nearby ocean. Sometimes, though, he wished he could see the stars.

He was reaching for said pen behind his ear when the sidewalk in front of him started to tilt and warp, the feeling behind his eyes spinning. Startled, he took a breath and closed his eyes, trying to remedy what could only be vertigo. It was rather sudden, and he’d been walking just fine, but maybe switching from his bright phone screen to the darkness of Haixu had been too much. But then the ringing in his ears started, and the ringing started at the exact moment that he tasted copper. His nose ran blood even though he’d never gotten a nosebleed in his life, and he could barely hear himself strangle out, “What’s happening to me?”

Coughing on copper with his head tilted forward, struggling to see and keep his balance upon opening his eyes, and just aware of blood dripping to the back of the hand he had planted on the ground, he didn’t remember crouching, could barely feel his knees hitting the pavement. Blinking, trying to breathe, trying not to panic, and then all at once, everything realigned like a piece of paper slipping into a clear plastic folder. He could still taste blood, but he could see details on the ground again, and he could also hear the S20, and he could definitely hear the sound that rumbled through the air like an earthquake. 

He fumbled to retrieve his pen that had dropped from behind his ear, squinting to his left where the sound originated. He’d always known his walking haunt housed the coal plant to his left, but he’d ignored it aside from bringing a mask with him when the smog and dust was too high.

He watched one of its flue stacks crumble and fall, and started to wonder if he was dreaming or high off his ass or if it was the end of the world.

Sniffing, he dragged his wrist under his nose so his upper lip stopped dripping and got to his feet. The S20 still zipped on behind him. He could still just barely hear the waves from the nearby ocean. He saw another flue stack collapse, saw the cloud of dust, and then things clicked.

Dejun’s mom liked watching the news, and his dad brought his politics home with him. The television had stopped calling the witches “pirates” when it stopped being romantic and started to look a lot more like terrorism—when their destruction reached property damages in the billions, still climbing.

Sometimes, the people at school would regurgitate what their parents said. Anything from death sentences and witch hunts to the same terror they believed the witches wanted. Eco-terrorists, radical environmentalists, criminals, but Malaysia was swimming in trash, wasn’t it? And sometimes the air was too bad to go outside. The government wasn’t too great at counting the homeless, but the recent heatwave had claimed lives—was claiming lives.

Dejun ran for the energy plant because he wasn’t an idiot. Sometimes, he just wished he could see the stars.

** End) **

 

 

_“… the world is held up by water and rides like a ship, and when it is said to “quake” it is actually rocking because of the water’s movement.”_ \- Seneca on Thales

 

Youngho held the strap of his bag between his teeth as he hauled himself up the weather side of the shrouds, the morning winds making a mess of his hair as it blew against his back. He remembered the precautions they all used to take when they first discovered the Neo, their cold, shaking, stubborn hands hooking themselves to every fifth step up the ropes. They still forbade anyone new from climbing the ropes alone, and even attempted to forbid the maknaes, but just like the rest of them, they would learn.

Climbing had stopped feeling like an hour-long effort about a year ago—now it was just the oily, green smell he bemoaned by the end of every task involving the ship’s ropes. That and the wind, which wasn’t cut nearly enough to be excused even in the crow’s nest, which he pulled himself into some minutes later.

“You really made me do this, huh? Sit up here at the root of a tornado?” Youngho shuffled his hands through his hair to neaten it, bag dropped down next to Ten’s knee. The winds whipped up over the top of the nest’s low walls and through the entrances, the willowy vines and balusters blocking only portions.

Ten cracked an eye open for Youngho and laughed. “You invited yourself.” The one visible injury Ten had collected from his mission with Kun, aside from his cracked knuckles, purpled in an ugly patch on his cheekbone. Youngho was used to seeing Ten bruised—used to seeing a good lot of his crew bruised, actually—but familiarity did little to reduce his regret.

“Should I have interpreted your hint as a discouragement? My bad,” Youngho said and grinned to Ten’s arch snort, as if he hadn’t touched Youngho’s elbow earlier, down on deck, and heated his ear with his breath as he stood on tiptoe, and told him that he was going to the crow’s nest. Not that they’d be doing anything up there—they never did. Ten just thrived on being a tease. Ten always knew what he was doing and did absolutely everything with a purpose. It was only not maddening because Youngho was a sucker. “I brought your portion, too, by the way.”

Breakfast in the dining room was ragtag, Donghyuck still using Mark as his catering service (Youngho could relate) and Sicheng refusing to let Dongyoung walk around again after he’d been so much of an idiot to do so last night (“Next time get someone to bring people _to_ you, hyung. I thought you were supposed to be smart,” Sicheng had said). Every so often, the crew split up and had their meals where they wanted. Ten had a penchant for heights.

Sometimes Youngho would tease that he was overcompensating.

Ten pulled Youngho’s bag into his lap and passed Youngho his bento box and one pair of chopsticks before taking the other box for himself. “Such a prince charming,” Ten said, his smile the one where just one corner of his mouth curled up a little more than it usually did and where his eyes came just short of lighting up. His lip curled on the side opposite his bruise, and Youngho occupied himself with opening his box up to distract himself from both things.

He got two shares of fruit in the bento, Taeyong having rolled his eyes as he had hesitated to put grapes in Ten’s portion. Youngho offered one just to watch Ten’s nose scrunch, though, and to laugh.

“You’re awful,” Ten murmured, and munched on his pickles before digging into the other vegetables.

“Make up your mind. Am I prince charming or awful?”

Ten huffed through his nose and smiled, but his expression dropped in a second or more. He spun the tips of his chopsticks in his rice, then looked up. The wind brushed his dark hair over to one side, and he put one hand up to block some of it from his eyes, his ruined knuckles on display. “You heard Doyoung went to find Taeyong last night, right?”

Youngho tried not to let his own smile drop. “Sure. Sicheng was pretty close to giving him a punch in the throat this morning.”

Ten leaned back and dropped his hand, tipping his head against the balusters and vines. He remained quiet as, like a laurel, the leaves touched through his hair. All Youngho could do was watch him think, unsure if he should resume eating. He wondered if he ought to have sat next to Ten instead, but here he was at an angle to him with a grape between two fingers, attempting to ignore the sickness chewing at the acid in his stomach.

“Did you hear anything funny when you were on call? Doyoung said something about a device.”

So much for ignoring things. Youngho closed his eyes, jaw pinching, and considered. Being the man through the earpiece, benched, was always the worst. Obviously being in the fray would have been ridiculous and excessive, especially since there hadn’t _been_ a fray, but it was hard to hear and be able to do nothing. _He’s alive_. Good lord—he’d hated that. Dongyoung being alive was the expectation, the fierce denial of possibility.

“Um,” Youngho sighed, and flicked over the memory. “There was an alarm going off. I’d assumed it was just a household thing.” 

“I don’t think so.” Ten scooted over, setting his bento down to give a mild slap to Youngho’s exposed neck. He winced, but also tried to smile since Ten was smiling at him. “We should talk to Doyoung. But you should also stop looking like such a worried dad.”

“That’s daddy to you,” Youngho retorted, and laughed out an “Ow!” as Ten punched him in the chest this time, his crew mate’s eyes bright and defiant and his smile pretty. Youngho felt stupid just interacting with him, sometimes. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. But you can’t bring up something serious and not expect me to be serious as well.” Smiling again, properly now, Youngho sighed and tugged Ten closer because he was selfish and stupid, and Ten’s nose was starting to go pink from the wind. Ten only resisted for a moment before dragging his bento over with him and tucking himself into Youngho’s form. 

“It’s just every time I look at you when you’re not paying attention, you’ve got wrinkles forming,” Ten said, and took a bite of pickle and rice.

“That’s not true,” Youngho said. “Can’t be true. I’m only twenty-two. I’m still a baby.”

He could feel the shudder of Ten’s laugh against his chest, felt the pull, the want to touch his lips to the cold metal in Ten’s ears. Instead, he leaned to the side for access to his breakfast and ate through the rest of the time in silence.

* * *

The bed creaked in complaint as Dongyoung tried not to arch against the mattress, sucking in a harsh breath of control, a prayer, pain. He said nothing and yet—

“Maybe if you hadn’t gone alone you wouldn’t have to deal with this.”

Dongyoung sent a watery glare toward Yoonoh, holding his breath as Sicheng continued to sew his thigh closed. He’d reopened his stitches by walking last night, and when Sicheng had seen it all, he’d almost stabbed Dongyoung. The previous stitches had been done when he was unconscious, so his penance was being awake for this one.

And maybe he didn’t deal with pain—or needles—very well.

“Listen—” Dongyoung managed, voice thin and reedy.

“No,” Sicheng interrupted. “No one’s listening to you right now.” His expression was cool, spotless, brutal. Dongyoung had never been on the receiving end of Sicheng’s anger, only his dry tolerance should he contract a minor injury. When no one required his attention, which was very rare, the crew knew Sicheng to be quite peaceful and quiet. He liked to rest between their two malus komarovii trees that sprouted from the white irises (“They’re both endangered in Korea,” he knew, his books expanding beyond medicine into botany. “But they remind me of home.”). Along with Taeil and Taeyong, he had known Neo the longest, had figured out which unfamiliar plants could be used in their meals even if he still couldn’t cook worth a damn. Taeil liked to compare Sicheng to a sparrow or a stray cat, depending on how easily he smiled that day.

But he wasn’t sure which felt worse: Sicheng’s anger or Yoonoh’s. Yoonoh leant on the wall farthest from them, watching the needle pierce in, through, up in looping motions, expressionless and indifferent. Yoonoh didn’t have anger that shook out its sleeves and threw down a gauntlet. His was calculated and lofted with several steps taken back for distance. 

Everyone on the ship was amiable, kind, thoughtful, but Dongyoung had apparently done just the thing to put a wrench between their ribs. No one had looked too kindly on him since he returned.

Dongyoung turned his face into his pillow and tried not to bite off his tongue. Sicheng’s pillow was soft, though it smelled like a mix of katsura and Dongyoung’s sweaty fatigue.

Eventually the pinching of the needle stopped. He heard a drawer shut, the items within it disrupted but clicked closed by a safety catch, Sicheng’s brief and thin-soled footsteps, and then the door to the room slamming with a force that startled the shadows behind Dongyoung’s eyelids.

He counted his inhales and exhales, tried not to think that he could feel the gaze just beyond Yoonoh’s old prescription glasses with the gold metal and thin rims.

“Want me to get you some breakfast?” Yoonoh’s voice was impersonal, like he was speaking through a drive-thru microphone for a customer he didn’t know.

“No,” Dongyoung said, almost choking on the word. Absolutely nothing he was feeling even came close to mimicking hunger. It wasn’t that he couldn’t understand what was happening, but there was a childlike feeling of injury beyond his thigh and shoulder, and it made him want to tell Yoonoh to get out. He wanted to throw the pillow that smelled like sweat and katsura and knock the glasses off Yoonoh’s face because he’d almost _died_ but they were all killing him in a different way, now.

“You should eat,” Yoonoh said, still cool.

“Then why did you ask?” Dongyoung’s eyes snapped open with the snap from his tongue, and he righted his head to look at the ceiling and avoid looking at Yoonoh entirely. Up there, though it was low, it was just tightly woven roots. Sometimes the ship mocked modern and man-made things, making her wood look like slats or beams or doors with odd hinges, but other times she was just a ceiling of roots.

He could almost hear Yoonoh shrug. This conversation didn’t matter to him, the shrug said. Whatever, the shrug said. “Thought it was polite,” he said, like they were strangers.

With a breath so sharp he almost gagged, he pulled the pillow out from under his head with his good arm and slung it across his body. It hit the wall with a foot-gap between it and Yoonoh, the sound a mild _pof_ , and he wanted to scream, to dig his nails into Yoonoh’s neck.

Instead he ground out, “Get out, Jae.”

That got Yoonoh pushing himself from the wall, finally antagonizing the space between them. “Oh no. You don’t _get_ to be angry. You don’t get to tell me to leave. That’s not how this works,” Yoonoh said back, and the first hint of emotion leaked out like a mistake, his consonants weightier—a screwdriver denting metal. 

Dongyoung finally looked in his direction, but it was like touching dry ice. Yoonoh was, by far, one of the most genial members of the crew. Unless you rubbed him wrong in just the right way, he’d be unfailingly comfortable to be around, a steady hand to hold, a steady voice, a steady smile. Right now, there were lines around his nose like he usually got when he smiled, but these were more like a sneer. “You’re treating me like shit,” Dongyoung said, but it was weak around the edges. He hadn’t known how to deal with Sicheng’s anger, and he certainly didn’t know how to deal with Yoonoh’s. Did he push back, did he give? “I get to be angry. We both do. You think I’m not sorry?”

Yoonoh was two steps closer, but still a step away. He pushed his glasses up his nose, and there was the slightest tremor in his fingers. “Why didn’t you call and ask for backup? I know we keep calls to a minimum, but you think we don’t care about making sure you’re safe first?” The questions spilled like an attack, but Yoonoh seemed to be attempting to distract himself from his own intensity by bending to pick up the thrown pillow.

“I didn’t know,” Dongyoung said.

“That we were calling?”

“That it would end up like this!” He didn’t have to gesture at himself, or Yoonoh, or the door that was slammed. Everything was in the air like dark smoke, hot and overwhelmingly frigid all at once, and it was making Dongyoung’s eyes burn.

Yoonoh’s mouth pinched. “Lift your head.”

“No.”

Yoonoh’s hands gripped the pillow, the sinews taut against its faded rose. “Dejun told us he said they were ELE. How could you have not thought it might go badly? Or did you and you didn’t want anyone else to get involved?” He was trying hard to put space between his words, to give pauses and less tension, but the questions still came too fast.

“Because,” Dongyoung said, and he could barely hear anything beyond the thrum in his ears. “I wasn’t going in for an attack. I was just there to get Kunhang. There was a plan, and I wasn’t going to activate.” He felt incredibly vulnerable, prone on the bed and able to move but knowing it would only exacerbate the energy in the room. He was sure Sicheng would materialize and shank him, or that Yoonoh might leave him if he so much as tried to sit up. “It wasn’t even remotely dangerous—it didn’t matter that they were ELE because I wasn’t going to do anything except talk!” He swallowed, but it dragged against his throat, dry and thick. Yoonoh took a breath to speak, and Dongyoung jumped to continue before he could do so. “There’s no way I could have known that they had that device. We’ve never seen anything like it before. It detected me two minutes after they invited me inside and I swear everything was going fine before that. I wasn’t even activated. I only activated after they pulled a gun on me, I swear, Jae. It’s not my fault, I promise.” He was breathing too fast now to actually take in oxygen—his chest and throat were too tight, and Yoonoh was looking at him like nothing. Like nothing at all.

“What?”

“It was—it was going fine. I was totally safe I pr-promise.” The tears came like a wave, a bruising pressure piling through his lungs and up his throat, and he could swear he hadn’t bawled since he was a preteen when he had lost his grandmother. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to get his lungs to stop stuttering, to regain the scrap of control he’d been holding so tightly to before like a lifeline.

He felt Yoonoh’s hands on him first, his thumbs coming up under his eyes with the warmth he’d tried not to beg for but he was _tired_. Everyone had been cold to him and he was tired and he’d been stupid but it also wasn’t his fault. The mattress dipped when Yoonoh sat, and he sat through the tears until Dongyoung was just hiccuping, and his chest ached, and he was already done with being injured because he only wanted to curl up without wincing and he couldn’t.

“There was a device?” Yoonoh finally said, and his voice was much softer. His fingers carded through Dongyoung’s hair even though he was sweaty and too warm.

Dongyoung nodded, the starts of a headache throbbing.

“It detected you when you were inactive? Had you activated recently?”

“No,” Dongyoung croaked. “It’d been at least a day.”

Yoonoh’s hands didn’t stop, only drifted down Dongyoung’s good arm, wiped away the traces of any tears on his cheeks. “That’s not good,” he said eventually, sounding too soft and light, and when Dongyoung opened his eyes, Yoonoh looked thoughtful. His hands stilled as he made eye-contact, gaze a little distant but not aloof. “I’m sorry. For yelling at you.” He exhaled and took his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose before replacing them, and Dongyoung didn’t know what to say. There were a lot of empty spaces that had been shoved aside from the early apology. There was more to say, wasn’t there? “Can I put the pillow back, now?”

Dongyoung only lifted his head as a response, mind too cloudy from his headache and lingering pain, though he whispered back an apology that felt like weak silver at the same time. It made the corner of Yoonoh’s mouth crook, a dimple flashing.

“I’ll get you some food, okay? Please don’t…” Yoonoh sighed. “Please don’t go off on your own again.”

And he could have meant either of two things. Luckily, Dongyoung was neither committed to doing another solo mission nor reopening his stitches, so Yoonoh really shouldn’t have worried.

* * *

Yoonoh never walked in on any scene he was expecting. It’s what made him such an unflappable person. He had simply learned to accept that in life, and especially onboard the Neo with his collection of crew that knew how to take down a building but might still struggle peeling a potato, absolutely nothing went according to his realm of understanding. He couldn’t imagine how bland the world would be if it conformed to his narrowness.

So he simply blinked when he entered the dining room en route to the kitchen, and wondered if it was one of those times where he’d have to take out his journal in order to cope with unfolding events.

He wasn’t sure if the alarmingly large octopus on the table was alive or not, but it would be alive in his nightmares, he supposed.

“Taeyong?” he ventured.

“Don’t,” Taeyong said, and pointed a knife at him like it was a laser pointer and a not a knife, “talk to me. I’m very stressed.”

“You’re always stressed,” he said, and winced when Taeyong shot his a look that might kill, given he was holding a knife. It was just Taeyong, the octopus, and Yoonoh in the dining room with about five of the normal chairs pushed and stacked in the corners away from the many-legged intruder.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this thing?”

“Can we… can we not throw it back in the water?” Yoonoh asked, and almost startled when a bright “Absolutely not!” shot out from the doorway of the kitchen.

Yuta emerged, looking a bit worse for wear but almost electric, and said, “Tell me the last time we had anything meat or seafood. I’ll wait. Also, it’s already dead. You don’t have to hug the wall like that.”

Yoonoh took a step away from said wall and approached only very gradually. He vividly recalled how seafood moved when you introduced its dead limbs to sodium. “Literally how did we get this?” Its head was about the length of his forearm, and it existed, kind of limp and pathetic, like a dead octopus might.

He felt very tired.

But at the same time, Yuta was right—they almost never killed anything in Chaos Relative. Nothing with a heartbeat, and Neo gave her produce freely. Very rarely, someone would pick up an unusual treat from one of the farmer’s markets, but they couldn’t afford to mimic profligacy. If they got any money, it was from robbing a place they’d taken down, but money wasn’t usually the priority. Making sure everyone got out safe was. No one had stolen from Kunhang’s home, and the maknaes hadn’t even had time to find anything they could actually steal in the construction building. Not a lot of places had loose money floating about.

So Yuta was right, and it had been maybe weeks since Yoonoh had last had seafood. They practically lived on the ocean, but no one committed to fishing every day—it was a time sink when you had to feed as many people as you did, and the nets had never worked out right.

When all was said and done, the octopus could be something of a blessing, considering.

“We tried the nets last night,” Yuta said, and ran his hands through his hair. His inner arm sported something like a thread of rashes that looked suspiciously like circles. “Bastard ruined them.” Case in point: the nets never worked the way they were intended to.

“How did you kill it?” Yoonoh asked, though he didn’t really want an answer. It seemed polite, at the very least.

Yuta looked at him as he pried the knife from Taeyong’s hand, the captain looking like he was visiting another dimension in duress. “How do you think? We got Taeil to help—” And indeed, if Yoonoh focused on scent, he could almost make out the signature smell of a burnt match beyond the sheer saline, freshness of the octopus. “—even though Doyoung would have been nice.”

“He’s not—”

“I know he’s not,” Yuta said readily, and pulled Taeyong gently away from the table. “Did you come to get him some food? I would offer some of this but I think it might take a bit.”

“I’m, uh, I’m good.”

“That’s fine. If you see any of the kids on your way back, tell them to stop by. They’ll lose their minds, probably.”

Yoonoh nodded, because _probably_ , and slipped into the kitchen with what felt like the eye of the octopus staring him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh okay guys =] I'm going to have to slow down, now. I'm starting work in just a little over a week, so I'm going to switch to only Friday updates. I know it'll be a long wait until next Friday, but I'm a chapter behind my usual buffer of three chapters, and I really want to keep consistent updates. On top of that, to my own consternation, my chapters keep getting longer *rolls eyes*. It's not helping my pace. So! To be clear: I will be updating on the _sixteenth_ and then every Friday from then on. That'll give me time to write on weekends and edit throughout the week. You can follow me on twitter @speckledsolana. Any writing updates will be there.
> 
> On another note, I'm delighted to give Xiaojun a section on his birthday (to be honest it was entirely coincidence)! _Love_ that boy. Happy, happy birthday Xiaojun ♡
> 
> I was initially really insecure about this chapter, but it's been maybe two weeks since I first wrote it, and I feel better about it now. Because of my buffer system, it always feels like forever until I can get the chapters I wrote most recently to everyone. Feels very weird. In line with that, I wrote the next chapter very Renjun-heavy because I was pissed off about how Renjun was being treated at the time. Jisung and Chenle also make another appearance. Please have patience with the longer wait! ♡
> 
> As always, I love hearing from you guys—consider leaving a comment? I promise I'll get back to you ^^ I'm always so grateful and happy about your kind words.


	15. All or Nothing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was _agony_ to wait this long to update, but I'm glad I did. My new job is so rewarding but takes a lot out of me!
> 
> Thank you for your patience! Enjoy as things begin to start spinning again.

_“As for the transformations of Heaven and Earth the past recedes and the future continues it without a moment’s stopping . . .”_ \- Collected Commentaries annotation of “Master Standing over the River”

 

Renjun had joined the crew at sixteen, and it had been longer than a year since, though time passed funny in Chaos Relative. It didn’t have longer days or more sunlight, but there weren’t workdays, weekends, summer camp, school, choir. There were none of the same markers for passing time in the way he’d grown up. It wasn’t until they all stepped out of Chaos Relative that life suddenly moved in segments again. Time, being unchangeable and eternal, wasn’t some flowing thing in their home plane. It was full of grand people wrangling it into meanings of a different kind, cutting it into “late” and “early” and “acceptable” or “punishable.” There was a price to time, a stress and panic to time.

But time was always unchangeable and eternal, and it moved like a god, and the grand people were faced with twelve years left of greed, and the plain people twelve years of ruin.

It had taken Renjun one week to adjust his gait to the Neo, though it had involved significant bouts of sickness. He had learned after his stomach had settled that watercraft had six dimensions of movement, each requiring adjustment from the body, and yet the body managed it naturally with a learning curve of—for Renjun, at least—a week.

Time was funny indeed, but it moved.

He walked with perfect gait, feet bare against the cool slats of the ship at night. The stars spilled over themselves in question, and he found comfort—always found comfort—in how personal a world like this could be. It would seem that a world made by humans would have the mark of intimacy, but it didn’t. It was cold and bereft and proud.

Nature, though, had that life and touch of intimacy. The Neo had been Sicheng’s first. He had been her first arrival, then Taeyong, then Taeil, and then the rest. She wasn’t vast, but she was wide and long; racing from end to end of her could wind anyone, discarding the fact that they’d probably trip over several errant roots or run into a tree if they truly attempted the task. She had all the workings of a human-made ship with three trunks of mast, a deck, a hull, massive furled sleeves of sail, but no wheel, for no one controlled her but herself. She never denied them a need for a certain route, but she steered herself, caressing the waters with her movement and wishes. Large patches of the deck were bare, providing them space to spar and loll and gaze at the unobstructed sky, but most of her was covered with soft, dark dirt, winding plants, trees, brush, veins of metal. Every available space burst and bloomed with something wild, mild, fragrant, curious, reaching to skim the water or tickle the sky, twining around banisters, scaling walls, slipping and growing through the ship where it wanted to. She was a forest, a grassy field, springs gurgling up like a baby’s giggle and spilling out like a mother’s sigh, a ship-shaped island of wild things holding wild humans with wild dreams. 

It was interesting to Renjun that he could adjust to her within a single week, learn to respect the strength of her wood and the taste of her water chestnuts, plums, freedom. The world had had centuries to adjust to nature, and maybe they had. So much so that it faded into and bled in the background.

He slipped into the sleeping corridor and tapped on one of the doors, thinking, thinking, and breathing in the night, and worrying.

It was Yuta who opened up, dressed for bed but not yet looking drowsy, hair floppy and clean. “Oh,” he said. “Do you need Taeyong?”

“I think we should attack an ELE center,” Renjun said with no hesitation, because what went through Yuta reached Taeyong, and it didn’t matter so much which of the two heard it first. He didn’t wait because conceptually, this was going to be a discussion concerning conviction, and he needed to be clear. It was Renjun who brought the up issue because he was the oldest among the youngest, and he had the faster wits even when Donghyuck’s cut like a hot knife through butter, and because he was leveled and calm, and he was Donghyuck’s friend.

Yuta was still, though his eyes flicked over Renjun’s face, trying to read one of his youngest crew’s story from his expression alone, and he couldn’t, so he asked, “Why?”

And perhaps it was best, actually, that Yuta heard first because “Mark says they have another Bait.” would hit harder, though the followup was the important part: “But we should anyway, shouldn’t we?”

Yuta smiled something thin and surprised, and said, “Maybe.”

* * *

The map on Ten’s old laptop had to be blown up three times its regular size in order to make proper sense of the floor plan.

“I wish you would clean your screen,” Taeyong said, as mild as he could manage within his need for cleanliness.

Ten exhaled through his nose. “Could someone close the window? It’s drafty in here.”

“It’s closed,” Yuta replied, only glancing away from the screen for a moment to check.

“Weird. I’m hearing a lot of wind,” Ten said, and shot a look at Taeyong just in time to catch his pout.

Renjun tried not to smile.

“So,” Yuta said, indifferent to both his captain and Ten, “what we have here is an ELE center.” He pushed the computer just a few inches across Kun’s desk for Renjun to see properly. “There’s no way we can know whether it was the one they held Mark in or not, but it’s not too far from your construction company gig.”

The map itself was nothing more than a bird’s-eye view of each floor, the same as any other floor plan. It was all squares and rectangles and some odd curves. “How do you know it’s a center?” Renjun asked, and Yuta gestured to Kun.

“Mostly because it’s nondescript,” Kun said. “We won’t know for sure unless we check, but the address leads to some little bakery, so it doesn’t really make sense.” Kun leaned on the back of Yuta’s chair—his own chair, really—and one of his dimples peeked out in thought. “As far as we can find, it’s not owned by any big names. We have some other maps of buildings that are, but this one’s kind of out of place.”

When Yuta had brought Renjun over to this room, Kun had given a rundown of what his mission had been with Ten. Each crew had a rough “territory” they tended to cover, though there weren’t any strict rules. If everyone’s ships were like the Neo, there were simply certain waters the ships were drawn to, and so those boundaries marked the territories. What sometimes ended up happening because of those territories was that the ELE would be on particular guard for a certain set of people and crew—from their Chaos to their appearance. The Lunar crew had located an ELE center and had asked to be lent two members from the Neo to lower their predictability. The Lunar crew would stage a distraction elsewhere while Ten and Kun would infiltrate the center during a parade and obtain information, Ten as the mitigator and Kun as the primary infiltrator. Kun had loaded a drive off of two separate computers and had deleted any other important-looking files while he was at it to throw the ELE off knowing which things they had ended up taking. They’d be able to recover the files, of course, because Kun wasn’t a wizard, but it was a cheap jab and might make their goals at least vaguely opaque. The mission had given the Lunar Brig and Neo Culture valuable information, and though Ten’s bruise was starting to look real nasty, it had been a win-win.

Renjun nibbled on his bottom lip. “What if it’s a trap?”

“Pretty elaborate one,” Ten said, and hitched himself back into his hammock, head propped with his hands to still observe. He’d looked over the maps on his own a dozen or more times. “That’drequire them intentionally hooking the Lunar up with information and planting this map in just the right files. We didn’t even know what we were going to be taking—how would they have been able to predict that?” He pulled one of his sheets across his body and grinned. “If it’s a trap, then that can only mean Kun dear is a spy.”

Kun rolled his eyes and looked like he had half a mind to push his roommate out of the hammock and lock him in their clothing hatch. “I’m not a spy.”

“You also say you’re not in love with me.”

“I’m not.”

Taeyong made an annoyed noise. “Ten, shut it. Johnny’s the one who’s in love with you and you know it.”

The subsequent pink overtaking Ten’s face was such a vibrant and delicate shade that he seemed immediately conscious of it. He turned in his hammock to face away, hands stiff in an attempt not to touch his cheeks.

“Low blow,” Yuta murmured, but he was still smiling, and quick to move on before outing people became a contest. “Anyway, we’re pretty sure this might be another center. Not every center is in some nondescript building, but we can’t figure out what this one’s for unless it’s that.” He stretched out his arms in front of him and turned to look Renjun in the eyes. “So what we’re saying is it’s feasible. We _could_ attack a center, and it might just be the one Mark’s friend is in.”

“The trouble is that they’ve got some new tech on their side,” Kun said, and he too returned to his hammock, the computer no longer a focus. There were some vines trying to get into the tips of the netting where his hammock met the wall, Ten and Kun’s room somewhat more wild in general. A good corner of their room was occupied by the roots and trunk of a tree that continued to the outside of the ship, growing into and through their walls. It seemed as if Ten preferred to use its inner branches as a rack for just about anything. The one closest to his hammock dangled a diverse selection of Thai amulets, absent of one that Ten currently wore on his wrist—a small Phra Phrom.

Kun continued speaking while he leaned against his netting, and Renjun shuffled around to face him. “It’s what screwed Doyoung over. Have Kunhang or Dejun spoken to you guys about it yet?”

Renjun shook his head. He and the other kids had focused primarily on helping the two boys feel comfortable, playing around, introducing themselves, anxiously attempting to alleviate the tension their hyungs and geges had made so prominent.

“Well, we really need to talk to Kunhang and learn what he knows,” Kun said, taking Renjun’s ignorance in stride, “but according to Doyoung, Kunhang’s host parents had in their possession a device that detected him before he’d even activated. Kunhang was only safe because he’d never encountered active Chaos before—otherwise he’d have been long gone.”

The words registered slowly. For as long as Renjun had been a realized witch, the ELE had had trackers that were used to locate energy surges, attuned in particular to the waves of chaos an activated witch gave off. Over time, the trackers got more attuned to even minor activations, putting Mind and fine-tuned Force witches at greater risk. The key advantage, however, was that if a witch never activated in the scope and proximity of a tracker, they couldn’t be homed in on, and Seeds were totally in the clear. Their most recent concern had been the possibility of trackers being able to pick up residue chaos from a recent but not immediate activation.

A tracker that could detect an inactive witch? That hadn’t even been on their radar.

Before they knew it, the ELE might be developing something that could detect unrealized witches, Seeds, and then it would be over.

“That—” Renjun stared at the ground, circled a knot in the wood with his eyes. Something frantic and half-formed was trying to latch onto the inside of his throat, and it made his next words crack. “—that makes everything impossible.”

They’d be shot before they could even walk through the back door.

* * *

Jisung and Chenle started running as soon as they were out of the sleeping corridor, urged to tuck in hours ago and therefore completely going in the wrong direction, but distance from Kun and Ten’s door took greater priority.

“I don’t know if we needed to eavesdrop in on that one,” Chenle admitted, his hand firm in Jisung’s, and even though they had run for less than twenty seconds total, and even though he was fairly fit, Jisung still felt out of breath. It was hard to determine the culprit—what they’d just heard, the feeling of doing something they weren’t meant to, or the flush of mischief along Chenle’s cheekbones.

They ducked into the fruit grove, the trees higgledy-piggledy and funny like everything on the Neo, and the smell of summer-ripeness just touching the cool air of night. “You think they’d tell us?” Jisung asked, unsure what Chenle had entirely meant.

Chenle had always been paler, and in the deep night when the Neo had deigned to dim her lights to just short of nothing, he almost seemed to glow. “If they told Renjun? Yeah. If we’re really going to go for it, too, this might be a full-crew mission.” 

The fresh excitement in Chenle’s voice clanged against too many loud pans in Jisung’s head, and his throat was too dry for any of this. Chenle’s hand was still gripping his. “I—I dunno, Lele. We wouldn’t have the element of surprise. I’d be useless.” The hand held by Chenle couldn’t shake, but he had to put the other in the pocket of his shorts.

“I’ll protect you,” Chenle said without missing a beat, eyes gleaming, and Jisung could swear upon his brother’s ashes that his heart dropped to his ankles. Chenle’s fingers tightened around his, as if he knew they’d be shaking if they could. “And you’re a good fighter. You spar against me all the time and you’re great. You know how to use your knees and legs.”

Ten had taught him those things, taught him enough that the Muay Thai had started to bleed into him naturally. But that didn’t mean he could go up against an armed ELE officer with just his knees. There was nothing—absolutely nothing—like having two loaded guns aimed at you and your hyungs.

“I don’t want to,” Jisung said, weak, and he wanted to let go of Chenle’s hand, now.

Chenle’s smile fell and his eyes searched Jisung’s face. He felt like Chenle was running his fingers along the thin string of balance Jisung was trying to maintain, and it didn’t hurt, but it didn’t help when he was trying to hide. He wanted to curl into one of the trees and let it grow around him. “Jisungie.”

“What?” It came out as something between a snip and a whine, and he tried to keep his shoulders from hitching. Chenle’s body hit his chest with an audible sound, his arms coming around to curl up Jisung’s back with his head on his heart. He smelled like strong deodorant and cedar, like he always did, and Jisung sucked in breath after breath of cold ripe fruit and Chenle.

“Breathe,” Chenle said, and he had been, but now it was harder, because Chenle knew and he couldn’t hide. Not when Chenle could feel the shake of Jisung’s fingers against the bare skin of his shoulders.

“I’m breathing.” He tried to sound indignant, annoyed, but it came out as thin as his string of balance, frayed.

The movement of Chenle’s hands across and up his back made his heart hiccup, and he felt the heat in his throat that meant he’d be sick or cry, and he breathed. He tucked himself into his smaller best friend like Chenle was bigger than him. Chenle had to be huge to hold as much of Jisung’s world as he did, and yet he was smaller than him.

“Please don’t cry, Jisungie. It wasn’t your fault. We look after each other,” Chenle mumbled, and his fingers were in his hair. “It’s dangerous, and it’s scary, but we’ll protect each other.”

“What if someone gets hurt again?” Jisung’s words were garbled. He was trying to collect himself. He was.

“They might. We might. It’s okay, though. We’ll be okay.”

Jisung sucked in breath after breath.

One night, when they’d talked through the night until it was almost dawn, Chenle had reached across the space between his bed and Jisung’s hammock, and he’d said something that they both remembered perfectly.

He said it again among the trees and tangled roots and ocean chill. “I don’t want just twelve years with you, Jisungie. I want them all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for your patience. I tried to give a better image of the Neo in this chapter, and we're at the start of a new arc as well. I hope everyone enjoyed!
> 
> As usual, please consider leaving a comment! ^^ They give me lots of strength and encouragement.


	16. Glow, Itch, Inhale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two links for this chapter. The first one is [this.](http://theconversation.com/why-protesters-should-be-wary-of-12-years-to-climate-breakdown-rhetoric-115489)  
> You can read/skim it to clear up the meaning of "12 years" as Chenle said at the end of last chapter. It also suggests the Chaos Pirates' purpose (if you radicalize it). I want to point out that this is a story based in fantasy, however, even if the crossovers are based in reality. Liberties will be taken.
> 
> The second is [this](http://blog.tutorming.com/expats/how-to-say-i-love-you-in-chinese-actually).  
> Which you will need to understand the numbers slang at the beginning scene of this chapter. You don't have to read it if you want to keep Taeil's message ambiguous, but if you want to know what Winwin knows, it's a good thing to read. Just remember that 1:14 pm in military time is 13:14.

_“. . . a true and trusting relationship among members of a family is the fabric from which the norms of community . . . draw their tensile strength.”_ \- commentary on Confucius’s teachings

 

Their clock hadn’t been working for three years, now, ever since Sicheng threatened to throw it out the port window for ticking at him like the metronome that would sit on his sister’s piano. Taeil had disconnected it from the raw veins behind the desk with strategy. Now, it was stuck at 5:20, which was objectively embarrassing, and he wasn’t sure how Taeil had learned about that slang when he was born and raised in Korea. He was too afraid to mention it, but Taeil was receptive to his discomfort and had once politely asked if he would prefer 1:14 instead—which, so long as one considered that time in the PM, was even worse, in Sicheng’s opinion.

Taeil was a lot of things, but he was predominantly annoying.

Still, as the room seemed to sway around him and nausea roiled in his gut, all he wanted was that terribly annoying roommate of his to slam dunk him back into bed.

“Sicheng.” Dongyoung’s voice was soft and tentative as Sicheng’s breath knocked back into his senses from his palms, warm a sick and sour. His vision had been funny for hours and he’d ducked his lids behind his fingers to prevent himself from toppling into the afterlife. “Winwin, please rest.”

Sicheng drew in a harsh breath, and it shook his bones like his flesh was the skin of a rattle. “I can’t.” He’d never had to heal an actual, skin-through-muscle-just-shy-of-bone injury before. He’d never had to heal one and now he had to heal two, and Sicheng didn’t cry, but the exhaustion was unbearable.

“Please,” Dongyoung tried again, and something about his voice nicked Sicheng like a knife.

“What do you want me to _do_ , hyung?” He dropped his hands and glared with all the energy and fury he could muster because he wasn’t enough. He wasn’t enough. All of his inadequacies were bubbling up like acid and even if he couldn’t rest, if he didn’t leave soon he was sure he’d be sick. “You’re _infected!_ I’m not a surgeon I can’t just—I didn’t know what I was doing! I don’t—”

Dongyoung’s wide eyes got wider as Sicheng devolved into Mandarin and sagged into his chair with the ceiling throbbing like a heartbeat, his temples gnawing at his skull, black and white whispering at the edges of his vision. He gagged on the breath rolling through his body, pushing at his organs and compressing him into something too-small, turning his sweat into pinpricks of rancid ice, throat fluttering like tissue paper, clawing its way down his chest. He didn’t even see Dongyoung reach for his phone, was hardly aware of anything until fresh, hot summer air swept through his door from the open corridor.

“He’s having a panic attack,” he could _just_ hear Dongyoung whisper, and he managed to push Taeil’s hands away, his own heartbeat and breathing crashing into him like waves.

“ _Don’t touch me._ ”

Taeil snipped back a refusal in Sicheng’s direct dialect, and hearing it locked up Sicheng’s throat in a way he couldn’t possibly explain. The pain stabbed nearly as badly as the pain in his head and throat, and he gasped and buckled like a useless document sent through the shredder. Taeil collected him through a mix of apologies and a straining attempt at soothing, picking him up out of the chair and nudging his nose into his hair and asking him to stop, to rest.

“He’s _infected_ ,” Sicheng tried, his lips knocking against Taeil’s cheekbone as he tried to see through his lungs seizing.

“We’ll figure it out.”

“We can’t! We can’t take him to a hospital—”

“Winwin, please. I’ll have Kun step in if you won’t calm down.” By now, Taeil’s arms were secured against Sicheng’s back, inhaling the severe scent of burning and lightning that had been melting through Sicheng’s body like spoiled sap. The threat of Kun seized Sicheng muscles up and Taeil tensed, holding him tighter as Sicheng strained, pushing against Taeil’s chest and making him wince. “You’re going to kill yourself, Sicheng. Please _stop_.”

And then something went wrong, and all of the pain went woozy and blotted. Sicheng’s breath hitched and he wrenched himself out of Taeil’s arms, wobbly on his legs, the details of the room like foam, and Taeil didn’t seem right. The light was wrong. His eyes were wrong, even in their caution, and Taeil looked like how Sicheng thought of him rather than how he actually was. A little too bright, distant, a mystery.

“Sweetheart?” Taeil said.

No, that was wrong.

Dongyoung was still behind him, lifted up on the one elbow that wouldn’t hurt him, searching his face. His hair was tidy.

That was wrong.

Sicheng dragged in a breath. “Let me wake up.”

The room was silent, and he was already losing his grasp on it in its entirety. He couldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t. Dongyoung’s leg was infected. He—

“Let me wake up. Kun, let me wake _up. Kun!_ ”

The room was fading at its edges. Taeil gave off a soft, warm glow. Everything pulsed and swayed gently, woozily. He felt his legs give out, but the pain of his knees hitting the floor never came. He grappled with the slats of the Neo, trying to shake himself into consciousness, but he was slipping. He’d been awake too long already. He was exhausted.

He fell.

* * *

Only when Sicheng’s eyes stopped flicking behind his lids did Kun lift his hand from his shoulder, Taeil’s arms still around Sicheng, firm and gentle. Dongyoung sunk into the bed, closing his eyes and letting his phone drop next to his hip as he ran a hand over his face. Kunhang drifted in the still-open doorway, eyes wide and mouth pinched.

“Well,” Kun said. “I’m sure he’ll forgive me.”

Taeil’s lips quirked as he hefted Sicheng as gradually as he could, lifting him into his hammock once again. Taeil had been sleeping in Dongyoung’s hammock in the room he’d always shared with Jungwoo lately, his own hammock more or less Sicheng’s until Dongyoung was healed.

Which, now, held certain complications.

“Why can’t we take him to the hospital?” Kunhang asked, voice floating in as Taeil lowered himself into the abandoned chair, his back cracking again without any effort on his part. A rash was blooming up from under his shirt and up his neck from where Sicheng had pushed against him, as red and frustrated as the exacerbated healer had been. He seemed content to ignore it, as if it weren’t the first time his roommate had activated against him.

Kun turned to Kunhang and gave a jerk of a nod, suggesting that he could come into the room. “They’ll ask for identification. Most of us don’t have ours, and even if we did, it wouldn’t be safe.” Kun said as Kunhang closed the door behind him. “There’s a chance that if the ELE knows we’re witches, they’re tracking us, and that’ll put the hospital at risk.”

“Or put them on our trail again,” Taeil added, eyes closed, decidedly limp now. There was a subconscious divot between his eyes, a pinch he likely wasn’t aware of. “We don’t know if our families are safe or not, but putting ourselves out there and confirming anything we can help is a risk we don’t want to take.”

Kunhang settled his back against the wall perpendicular to the bed, eyes drifting over the bare, red and agitated skin of Dongyoung’s leg wound. He swallowed down an apology, but considered the agitated numbness snagging and pulling at his fingertips like he was holding red ants. It was a very alien feeling, but not unlike the waves of numbness he’d felt when he had attempted to enter his apartment with Dongyoung and his host parents bleeding inside.

“How did you find out what your Chaos was?” Kunhang asked the air, and the three of them looked over. 

Taeil blinked and glanced over at Sicheng as if to make sure he was still unconscious. “My mom’s little rice cooker alarm went off and startled me.”

Kunhang couldn’t figure out the significance of that. “What happened?”

“It exploded,” Taeil said.

“You explode things?” Kunhang clarified.

“Sometimes,” he only said.

Dongyoung, almost smiling in amusement through his own pain, brushed over Taeil’s esotericism. “Mine just happened because I got angry. Tripped a store customer from two aisles away and he ended up breaking his nose.” He lifted his fingers to touch his face in a distant phantom sympathy, but otherwise looked unbothered.

Kun, last of the trio, only shrugged. “I touched someone and they collapsed. I thought they’d died.”

Kunhang hesitated. “No tingling?” he asked as the red ants burned and nipped.

“Tingling?” Taeil sat up and leaned forward, looking over Kunhang with interest. “Maybe sometimes when I’ve started to burn out. Are you trying to do something?”

Kunhang shook his head. “No. I mean, not on purpose.”

They processed this, and the tingling spread to Kunhang’s hands, and maybe he really wanted to rip his skin off. Kunhang took a breath. “This is going to sound weird, but I think it’s Dongyoung-hyung.”

Dongyoung lifted his head, looking slighted. “I’m not doing anything? Did you guys tell him to start blaming everything on me? It’s not funny. I literally have a fever this is unfair.”

Kun held up his hands and Taeil chuckled. Kunhang wasn’t sure if he was looking in on a privilege of intimacy or if Dongyoung complained on the regular, but he spurred his explanation forward nonetheless. “No, it’s just this isn’t the first time, but it’s worse. Like—” He scratched at his palms, uncomfortable as the feeling leaked through his wrists. “—maybe I’m crazy, but I think it’s happening when I’m around like, open wounds. Because it happened in the apartment and whenever I see hyung, but I’m not—I never—” It itched so badly he was seconds away from biting his flesh straight off, honestly. “—I’ve seen people injured before when I was younger and this is very new and—”

“Woah there,” Taeil said, and leaned over in his chair to snag one of Kunhang’s hands to stop his nails from digging any further into his forearm. His fingers felt like soothing ice against his skin. “That’s really interesting, but I’m going to need you to calm down. We’ve had enough episodes today. It’s still morning.”

Kunhang had to tense every muscle in his hands to stop himself from continuing to scratch. He looked over to Kun in some wordless plea and only got some raised eyebrows. But then, “Everyone’s Chaos manifests differently, so just because you’re different doesn’t mean you’re crazy,” Kun said, though his expression was carefully composed, lacking in encouragement or anything, really. “Maybe you should listen to it.”

“I think I should touch his leg,” Kunhang blurted, and Dongyoung almost immediately responded with, “ _Don’t_ like that. Taeil blew something up the first time he activated.”

The ship creaked in the ensuing silence as too many thoughts flicked around in Taeil’s eyes. Dongyoung sagged into the bed, staring with indignant intensity at Taeil as if he might propel him away from the idea with willpower alone.

“Hey, Kun,” Taeil said, voice cream honey, and Dongyoung groaned. Kun seemed to be trying not to abuse his talent for raising his eyebrows, instead screwing up his mouth in a responding hum. 

“Wanna get Jungwoo for me?”

* * *

Kun found Jungwoo on the bowsprit, tangled in loose ropes and taking in deep breaths of brine-speckled air, hair pushed every-which-way from the wind. Though Jungwoo had been on the Neo longerthan most of them, Kun knew where he sought solace, and it was usually a tenuous combination of danger and mindlessness—something as stupid as lying on the thin bowsprit with only loose ropes to hold onto and a shred of a prayer.

He called it exposure therapy, meditation, and had once been a desperate attempt to get the colors to just stop.

Jungwoo was the only witch Kun knew who never had to activate his Chaos. It was ever-present, constantly swirling and pushing and warning with no real way to shut it down. From what Jungwoo had told him, unusual, out-of-place colors would show up wherever something posed a danger to himself. If he wandered too close to a stovetop burner, it might give off fluorescent green. If someone with a cold sneezed, they might spew purple with all the germs within their breath. If a vase sat too close to the edge of a counter, it might glow pink.

When Kun had first stepped foot on the Neo, Jungwoo was almost nonexistent, crippled by anxiety and terror. He’d seen him maybe twice the first two weeks he’d been onboard.

Jungwoo had come a long way.

“Zeus!” Kun called over the water and waves, and Jungwoo’s eyes fluttered open, a smile already hovering on his lips. They gave him the nickname not only because his name could scrunch up to sound like it, but because they hoped that it would give him power. To be called the king of the gods, and to own it—it was a small attempt at extending confidence to an eighteen-year-old boy who was so scared it locked up his bones. He was a year or so older now, and he’d grown into it like someone desperate and determined.

He lifted his head, though didn’t make a move to extract himself and slide down just yet, not sure what Kun’s purpose was. His soft returned greeting was lost in the breaks of the waves.

“Taeil wants you!” The air was fresh and wild at the forecastle, sweeping off the ocean uncontrolled before it buffeted the Neo’s sails, wove through her trees like children tumbling across the deck.

Jungwoo sat up in reply and slid down and off the bowsprit, shaking off the ropes that, at this point, were his and his only. No one else had claimed the minor slip of wood jutting out at the front, and no one would mess with his safety. “A litmus test?” he asked, and he gave off coolness up close like he, too, was a wind off the ocean. The day was sunny and bright and hot, but the seas were always cool.

“Just for Kunhang,” Kun said, and Jungwoo smiled. It was almost startling to see someone so bracing when everyone else had been stagnating in concern, and to see Jungwoo being the foil was almost ironic.

“We’re going to scare them away at this rate,” Jungwoo said, latching onto Kun like he was his escort, always one for skinship. “We're getting so tense.”

Kun scoffed. “They're braver than this. They'll be fine.”

Jungwoo only smiled and brushed Kun's wrist with his fingertips, hands cool on his warm skin, and Kun didn’t even bother to stifle his smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't like updating only once a week haha but it's unreasonable to update twice a week right now so I'll just have to suffer.
> 
> I love this chapter dearly. Winwin and Taeil's relationship is important to me, and I also wanted to take the chance to explain some things in a little more detail. The next chapter will be the last truly slow chapter for a while, and 18 will really get the next arc spinning.
> 
> I want to warn well in advance that chapter 19 will change the rating of this fic, and with it will come the trigger warning tag of "body horror." I will mark those portions and provide ways for readers to skip if they wish to. I can and will respect that need from anyone.
> 
> As usual, I would love to hear from anyone in the comments. My [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana) and [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1) are also open for pestering. I have a [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne) as well, but I ask that if you send me a tell, you sign it in some way (____ anon, anon 1, annonnie, etc) so that I know it's not a bot/random question.
> 
> Thank you for all your love and support <3


	17. Trimmings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys guys guys! I commissioned one of my sweetest, oldest friends [to draw Jungwoo and they did](https://twitter.com/mxcatwalk/status/1167603628825120769?s=21) and he looks amazing? ;; Please take a look. Holly deserves the world and works so hard on their craft.
> 
> I _am_ sorry I have to be so dramatic as to commission Jungwoo being overwhelmed but... *shrugs*

** (History **

_“And the source of coming-to-be for existing things is that into which destruction, too, happens “according to necessity; for they pay penalty and retribution to each other for their injustice according to the assessment of Time . . .””_ \- Simplicus

 

No one knew for sure when the first Chaos manifested—only that the first few reports of destruction started cropping up three years prior to the present. The first name the harnessers of Chaos had been given was from an eye-witness who had said she’d stared into the abyss and seen persons riding in on a ship, yelling like demon pirates. While undoubtedly befuddled, since no ship could actually leave Chaos Relative, it wasn’t a stretch to believe someone could have witnessed a portal open up.

Regardless, the everyday people discarded the witness in the beginning, but kept the name. The first reports covered various islands across the globe, igniting both anti-indigenous sentiments and meme-ish anarchist support, and then it spread. It spread in reports of minor raids to destroy hydraulic fracturing systems, plastics factories rendered useless from the inside out, mansions razed while their owners were gone, so on and so forth; it spread in reports of missing persons, people arrested but disappearing, people admitted to hospitals with strange symptoms then breaking out. Latter reports were spotty—an early statistic had been released suggesting that one person in fifty could be a “pirate.” 

No. 

“Witch.” 

Panic. 

Fingers were pointed and baseless accusations were raised from guilty people in power suggesting that Chaos Witches were much more than simply a risk to their wealth. Of course, there were regular repercussions: oil went up in price, entire grids around the world lost power, whole armies and guerrillas found their equipment relocated or destroyed, border camps and fences were reduced to rubble with the inhabitants missing. 

Different crews focused on different things, and of course it affected the world—there was no way it wouldn’t. It wasn’t a joke. No one was playing around, and that became obvious in just months of Chaos activity.

That’s when the ELE rose—Ecological Law Enforcement on the grounds that Chaos Witches were Ecological Terrorists. It was terrifying for the world, certainly, to discover a worldwide and effective mass of an organization bent on dismantling anything corrupt at-large, anything hurting nature, anything hurtling the Earth toward an early uninhabitable state. No one died by their hands until the ELE rose up, because the ELE carried guns and a kill-on-sight _modus operandi_. Bait swiftly became a thing, once the ELE caught on to the inane reality that they were dealing with the supernatural (ironic, but dismissible). The discovery of the Chaos system of Seeds being “realized” only upon contact with an activated and realized witch was a boon for them for sure, but it certainly made Chaos Witches look on the ELE with a lot less mercy.

Yuta had been one of the first, and he had the scars to prove it.

** End) **

 

 

_“One who is injured ought not to return the injury, for on no account can it be right to do an injustice; and it is not right to return an injury, or to do evil to any man, however much we have suffered from him.”_ - Socrates

 

Once upon a time, the solar cookers had contained maybe a handful of sun-roasted vegetables and a pot of rice. Enough to support a crew of eight so long as there was other fresh food to eat, which there always was. There was still enough (the Neo was generous and thriving, and they were conscientious), but the reality of nineteen members really properly slapped Taeyong in the face when he was faced with two whole pots of rice and a dozen other things in the crowded cookers.

They had about two working solar cookers they’d bought and two functional ones they’d built set out on the forecastle desk. The flora grew lowest on the forecastle, vaguely swampy in some patches farther from where the wind would break through the balusters. If a crew member wasn’t already barefoot by the forecastle, they ought to be. Most of their shoes were too old to keep out the muck and mud. 

The sails snapped with arhythmic fervor above and behind him, unfurled by the early risers, pushing the Neo to split the waters. They’d be firmly back in the middle of their home territory soon, having been anchored in the gap between the Black Squall, the Dawn Minuet, and the Lunar Brig’s territories, taking advantage of the tiny islands spotting the Yellow Sea to compress Chaos Relative. The islands didn’t even exist on the Real Plane, the sea levels in Chaos Relative just low enough to make them peek out like knuckles.

“You really need to stop biting your nails.”

Taeyong jerked around so fast he almost tripped, mouth already open in something like rage upon hearing Dongyoung’s voice. The rage then fizzled into something like betrayal upon realizing that Taeil was supporting him, tucked under Doyoung’s good arm and sporting an unperturbed visage. Taeil’s shortened hair stuck up in the same places as last night, which was disturbing if only for the implication that his hyung may not have slept. He’d joined them at the crack of dawn to bring the sails to full bloom, their mat hyung bright and distant as ever. He wished he’d noticed then.

But, he had to turn to the larger (though more gangly) issue. “You’re not supposed to be up,” Taeyong said to Dongyoung, indignation frustratingly mediocre. The summer breeze soothed around them, but he didn’t want to be soothed right now, even as he was already on the wrong foot.

Taeil gave a mollifying smile, and Taeyong felt ganged up on. “You can thank Kunhang,” Taeil said, and when Taeyong doubted, eyes pointing over Dongyoung’s still-bandaged leg and free shoulder, he continued. “He brought down Doyoung’s fever and infection. We checked with Jungwoo before even letting him come close.”

It could be really difficult to roll with all the new things that were thrust at him sometimes, so he computed what he could and hedged over the infection he hadn’t even known Dongyoung had had. “But your stitches—”

“Wouldn’t be at risk if you actually ever visited me, which you didn’t,” Dongyoung said, and Taeyong’s mouth opened involuntarily in defense until the backlash of guilt hit him. And then he closed his mouth. And wasn’t sure what to say.

Instead, temporary relief came in the form of Youngho taking the steps up to the forecastle two at a time, the wood protesting beneath his bare soles. “TY! What’s the holdup?” He grinned at both Taeil and Dongyoung as if they weren’t a surprise at all, and Taeyong could only feel even more insulted. “Feeling oka—ow! What?”

Taeyong retracted his pinching fingers from Youngho’s bare arm, trying to suppress an ugly flush. “Don’t enable him. Just grab the rice or something.” They’d brought the solar cookers to the forecastle specifically because it was currently the sunniest spot available—most days, dinner had to be quite early to follow the daylight or they’d eat a cold meal later. As a result, most of them woke with the sun. This was just lunch, and the thought of repeating the process for dinner was almost exhausting if it weren’t that cooking was a stress-reliever for Taeyong.

Maybe not enough of one, though.

Youngho laughed as he opened up one of the cookers, pulling out his gloves. “Yessir.” His easy attitude made Taeyong want to retreat to the chicken coop room, his anxiety being met head-on by positivity making him feel cornered and silly. But he was bigger than this, so he bit his lip and inhaled through his nose.

“I’m glad you’re feeling well enough to walk, Doyoung,” he said, stiff but trying, and he noted Youngho’s smile turn warm as he straightened with a rice pot in his hands. Taeil was watching, he knew. It was a bit much to handle, so Taeyong looked down. His eyes locked in on a beetle making its way up the balusters to his left, approaching the climbing flowers.

Against his will, silence settled, Johnny passing behind and skipping back down the stairs, and Taeyong resisted biting his nails with every muscle involved.

“Thank you,” Dongyoung said finally. “But you’re still mad at me?” The question was searching, almost as if Dongyoung was reaching across to him. Taeyong took a step back, fumbling for his own gloves in his back pocket. The recycled leather was smooth against his fingertips.

“Can we talk about it later?” Taeyong asked, gaze fixed on the process of tugging on the hand coverings, molded and easy against his chafed skin.

“I can leave,” Taeil said, “so long as you help him walk. I can get the food.”

Taeyong looked up and leveled with Taeil, felt Taeil search him, and even though Taeyong was _pleading_ , Taeil slipped out from under Dongyoung’s arm and pulled out his own gloves. Most of them kept their gloves on them. They were originally meant to keep their fingerprints off incriminating places, but they came in handy enough to become something like an appendage.

Almost fumbling to catch and support Dongyoung, now abandoned, Taeyong felt his stomach curl into itself with the warmth of Dongyoung’s side against him. The smell of Dongyoung’s Chaos, always coppery and sharp, was utterly absent. Instead, he smelled strongly of exhaustion and sweat.

“Sorry,” Dongyoung apologized on instinct, shifting awkwardly to accommodate the difference of height between his changing human supports.

Taeyong watched Taeil heft the second pot of rice, the sinews in his forearms flexing. Their hyung smiled at them both, just a twitch of his lips and a tactful ignoring of Taeyong’s pleading eyes as he left the forecastle down the stairs.

If Taeyong could sag, he would. Instead, he led Dongyoung to the railing, navigating him so as to not crush the Korean bellflowers clustered against the wood. As Dongyoung muttered a thank you, Taeyong leaned against the railing, facing the main mast as Dongyoung faced outward in a last bid to avoid eye contact.

Taeyong closed his eyes and Dongyoung drew in a breath. “I could defend myself, but I think you just need to know that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” The words were numb on his tongue, pulse stamping its rhythm everywhere like it wasn’t aware he was attempting to control it. He desperately tried not to drop his gloves as he pulled them back off and stuffed them in his pockets. “For which things?”

He heard the dry click of Dongyoung’s swallow like a woodpecker tapping agains this throat. “I’m sorry I left on an argument. And I’m sorry I made you worry.”

The rift between them from looking away, having their bodies oriented opposite to each other, allowed Taeyong to say what he may not have otherwise. “But you’re not sorry you left on your own.”

He remembered keenly the way Dongyoung dodged the fact that they traveled in pairs—that it was a steady rule on-ship. To ignore it was not only dangerous, but irresponsible in setting an example. The worst thing imaginable was the idea of one of the youngest getting the idea in their heads that they were invincible. They weren’t. None of them were.

In some ways, it was good that Dongyoung was shot. He was a visible, concrete lesson.

Silence fell and Taeyong settled his face in his hands as they heard Youngho climb the stairs again. He paid them no mind as far as Taeyong could tell, rummaging for the roasted vegetables and dropping with a dull clang into an empty pot, probably. As he popped back down the stairs, Taeil returned, and the tension of Taeyong’s last words strung thick between Dongyoung and himself even as Taeil piped up an interjection through the building agony. “The vegetables are cooked well, TY!”

Taeyong exhaled a pained laugh, acknowledging that Taeil snuck into the food but far more beleaguered by the weight of his argument with one of his closest friends. Dongyoung waited for Taeil to leave before saying anything at all, words slow. “I’m sorry that I was wrong and that I hurt you because of it.”

Squeezing his eyes closed, Taeyong tried to breathe. It wasn’t quite the right apology, and he knew Dongyoung knew it. “You know you’re benched for the next mission, right? Even if you’re totally healed by then.”

The silence ruffled its feathers, making itself bigger between them for a stretch of seconds Taeyong could hardly bear before Dongyoung replied. “Right,” he said, voice murky and strained. “Of course. Can you look at me?”

Taeyong dropped his hands and blinked at the low trees on the deck below. A bird flicked between the branches of one of them, its brown feathers blending into the bark and purple leaves. The deck stretched in front of him, populated with plants and small movements and, in the farther distance, Ten teaching one of the new kids how to climb the shrouds. “I’m still upset.”

“I know,” Dongyoung said. “I know you’re upset, but I need you to know I’m sorry for a lot of things and I don’t—I don’t think just my voice does it justice. I messed up, but you’re my best friend, and this really sucks and I’m sorry.”

Closing his eyes to collect himself one last time, Taeyong breathed out before turning to look at him. He knew he had to be sleeping off his injuries, but Dongyoung still looked worn and haggard, his hair untidy and his undereyes bruised. He watched his eyes flick between his own, mouth pinched like he was collecting words behind his lips before letting them spill, gaze big and tired and just a tinge of something sharp like fear. “I’m really sorry, hyung. Please forgive me. I promise I’ll sit out the next mission, but please forgive me.”

In that moment, Taeyong remembered when Donghyuck had said that he “can’t say no.” He really couldn’t. His crew hurting hurt almost as bad as his own pain did, and here it was doubled. So he breathed in and tried his best to let it go, and Dongyoung might have seen it in his eyes, because his lips gave a wary, hopeful twitch. “I accept your apology,” Taeyong said, and tried not to give in to the beginnings of the same stress headache he’d been getting daily. “I think I’ve forgiven you, but I’ll work on it.”

And that was enough to make Dongyoung smile. It felt like a slap on the chest, but in a strangely satisfying way.

* * *

The knife sang as Yoonoh sharpened it, just a shiver of a disturbance as he listened to Ten’s rundown. Ten was sitting on a stack of unopened rice bags and fiddling with the knob on the kitchen wall that held their aprons up. Their kitchen had never been spectacularly large, but the storage below their sisal rug more than made up for it, and they could easily accommodate four cooks if someone worked on the floor. Everything that wasn’t in their storage hatch was shoved into the corners and sides, and in the case of big rice bags, made perfect perches for sitting.

“So we still have to talk to Kunhang, then,” Yoonoh said, and pulled a carrot toward himself to cut. The crew rotated roles according to capability, but Yoonoh was often on cooking duty. He was getting a head start on the prepwork for dinner, even as lunch was just being brought in. Once he turned to the board, Ten was no longer in his sight, but the clicking sound coming from his corner suggested he was now playing with one of his pendants rather than the aprons.

“Right. I mean, not that we doubt Doyoung, but Kunhang might know something more.”

Dongyoung wouldn’t have lied about the device, not that he was much of a liar in the first place. The idea of its existence was far too crucial to joke about. 

Yoonoh stuck out a hand to catch one of the carrots as it made a bid to roll off the counter, unsettled by the easy sway of the ship, and he stuck it between the cutting board and the wall. “Why don’t we talk to him now? He can’t be busy, can he?”

Ten shifting was signaled by the rice making sounds beneath him, fine and almost crumbly. “Last I heard, he did some healing on Doyoung. Like half an hour ago. He should be—woah there.”

Yoonoh had cut the carrot width-wise too quickly and the snap of the knife slicing through had flung it left, knocking against the wall like a hefty ping-pong ball. “I—”

“You okay?” Ten asked, voice taut with amusement.

Yoonoh sighed and reached for the renegade carrot chunk. “Please don’t start. I just cut it wrong. It has nothing to do with him.”

“Why, I never implied it did,” Ten lofted, and managed to sound like a stereotypically old white lady while doing it. “Anyway. I can go get him if you don’t need my help catching your carrots.”

Yoonoh decided not to grace that jab with a response and continued cutting with the hope that Ten would get the message; he did, and Yoonoh had the kitchen to himself until Youngho trudged in with freshly cooked rice and asked, “Where’s Ten?”

He had half a mind to say he hadn’t the faintest clue, but he decided he was above that. “He went to get Kunhang.” Yoonoh picked up the sticks of carrot he’d cut and dropped them on a plate. They were creating a neat pile that didn’t truly reflect his mental state at all. The smell of cooked rice, however, gave him familiarity that almost made him feel less like the world was slightly too vibrant, too sharp. “Now’s as good a time as any to talk to him.”

“About the new tracker?”

“Yup.”

Youngho hovered for a bit longer, watching Yoonoh finish up the carrots before moving on to the cucumber. Taeil slid in with more rice by the smell of it just as Youngho cleared his throat. “You know Doyoung’s up. And walking.”

Before he could hazard another flying vegetable, Yoonoh set the knife down with a clang and looked straight at Youngho. “Why?”

Youngho, ever collected, looked unbothered by Yoonoh’s own sense of bother. “Looked like he wanted to talk to Tyeong. Right, Taeil?” Youngho reached to pat Yoonoh’s shoulder as he moved to one of the shelves for an empty brass pot.

“Right,” Taeil confirmed, though it was ruined by the yawn he stifled against his shoulder before he put down his own rice pot. “Winwin’s asleep. We had to knock him out. And Dongz has been sleeping plenty. I don’t know if I would like being bedridden for days. You know what he’s like.” They both watched Youngho leave the kitchen with the pot dangling from the one handle gripped in his hand. Yoonoh was trying not to judge him for his practiced ease. “He can join us for dinner.”

“Right,” Yoonoh said. “Right. Whatever.”

Taeil smiled at him, and Yoonoh drew in a sigh—let the breath speak for himself in all his unwillingness to air certain things out.

“You should tell him,” Taeil said, as if Yoonoh would automatically know what he meant. Yoonoh raised his eyebrows. “That you like him.”

That pulled an involuntary noise of _something_ out of Yoonoh that he wished he’d been able to cut off properly. He flicked through all his possible responses, all of them bad or sarcastic, and settled instead for an unconvinced smile that he knew showed his dimples. “Easier said than done.”

“I disagree,” Taeil said readily, and moved to grab the other empty pot left behind, hair tufty and neck noticeably red with a pointillistic rash. “The hard part is getting them to believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taeil: I tell Sicheng I love him every day and he almost decks me.  
> Jaehyun: That's...  
> Taeil: Take notes  
> Jaehyun: no
> 
> Ch 18 is our last reprieve before things kick up, so start buckling in. Reminder that ch 19 will change the fic rating (M) and introduce tw: body horror.
> 
> As usual, I would love to hear from anyone in the comments. I promise I reply thoroughly and as soon as I'm able! My [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana) and [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1) are also open for pestering. I have a [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne) as well, but I ask that if you send me a tell, you sign it in some way (____ anon, anon 1, annonnie, etc) so that I know it's not a bot/random question.
> 
> Also a mini self-promo: I published [a fun doten oneshot](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445662) (I really like it, anyway) if you want something a little more lighthearted ♡


	18. Pin Drop

_“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.”_ \- Epicurus

 

Jaemin pulled Donghyuck out of his hammock and onto shaky legs permanently just before dinner. Having been incapacitated for far too long by his standards, Donghyuck seemed to be trying his best not to rely on him. He’d been up for short periods to stretch, to do what was necessary, to just get out and about, but his adventures were brief. This, though, Donghyuck had said, would be final—he’d be reasserting a normal pattern, period. No discussion.

“Ready to be up and face the world?” Jaemin asked, grinning as Donghyuck wobbled in his effort to pull on a fresh pair of shorts.

“I’ll eat its ass,” Donghyuck said, a tired agitation curling around his nose as he struggled. He shot a warning glance when Jaemin twitched to help him, so Jaemin laughed instead. He settled to lean against the bare wall, fingertips grazing the waves of wood. The room Donghyuck shared with Jeno and Mark was larger than the one Jaemin shared with Renjun, but it also didn’t have any of the natural shelving Jaemin’s room had. Those were stacked with Renjun’s books and nervous ink drawings of the crew, not an inch taken by Jaemin’s own possessions. 

Instead of shelving, just adjacent to Mark’s bare corner was a shallow lip of the ship’s wall that collected and drained freshwater. As a result, Jaemin and Renjun visited this room about as much as the designated bath room—for a palmful of water, a quick cleanup, or a friendly jab from the occupants.

“You’ll really be okay?” Jaemin asked, watching the way Donghyuck fumbled to close the clothing hatch, hands shaky.

Donghyuck paused for an almost imperceptible moment, then straightened and gave a ghost of a smile that settled around his eyes. “I’d better be. If I lay here one more day I’ll jump ship.”

Jaemin gave a hum bordering indulgence and beckoned Donghyuck toward him. As Donghyuck made his way over, his movements were pinched and unsteady instead of burnished with his usual dangerous deliberation and ease. He looked more like a child of seventeen like this, just a little older than himself—as he was and should be. “Turn around. You’re tensing to protect your neck.”

The little pout denting Donghyuck’s bottom lip disappeared from view as he did what Jaemin asked, curling into the fingertips prodding at the too-burned, too-panicked muscles of a body shut down too many times. “You’re getting better, right?” Jaemin tried to keep any real concern out of his voice in the sheer effort to ensure Donghyuck’s honesty.

“It hurts less. My headache’s gone,” Donghyuck mumbled as Jaemin pressed his touch into the nape of his neck and upwards into his hair, the waves smooth and dark. Donghyuck gave a quiet sigh, almost swaying before catching himself. “We need to go.”

“Okay.” Jaemin pressed his thumbs into the deep strain of Donghyuck’s neck one last time before letting go. “Let’s go eat that ass.”

Donghyuck snorted.

* * *

There was a fundamental difference between “crowded” and “full.” Six people in the kitchen, all carrying knives was “crowded.” Nineteen people at a table that should only feasibly seat fifteen was “full.” They were elbow to elbow, some of them just close enough to nearly sit in their neighbor’s lap, but the sensation of having absolutely everyone at dinner all at once was somehow cathartic—especially with their previous meals as ragtag as they had been. Even lunch had seen Donghyuck and Sicheng absent, and though Sicheng wasn’t in the best of moods, this felt right.

Someone had cracked open the pickled king oyster mushrooms, and by the looks of scandal on Taeyong’s face upon sighting its bowl between the kkaennip kimchi and the pajeon, it hadn’t been him who did it. The rest of the spread was a zucchini and potato soup varying in spiciness, rice, and oi muchim, the latter of which was placed as close to Dongyoung as possible. Ten spied for when he noticed, watched his face pinch and twist into something annoyed and exasperated, and all the way on the opposite end of the table, Ten laughed.

The feeling of fullness before eating lapped at the rims of his body, reminding him of home. He tried to cradle the emotion away from his heart to keep it bright and weightless.

An unspoken rule made everyone wait to dig in until Taeyong sat down, a rule which he endured being teased over but was generally embarrassed about. He squeezed in between Jisung and Yuta, his elbows jostling the younger seemingly in an effort to keep the skin of his thigh from touching Yuta's—as if either one of them wouldn't have liked that. At the same time, Ten himself shied from Youngho's touch when even the side of his pinky finger brushed his forearm, so he supposed he really wasn't one to talk.

As soon as Taeyong settled somewhat comfortably, they all reached for something on the table, Youngho navigating his arms around to spoon Ten some soup. His eyes were only partially on the ladle, scanning over some of the more tense crew mates, so Ten had to nudge the utensil with his finger in order to make sure its contents actually spilled into his bowl.

"Eyes on the task, John," Ten said, and Youngho grinned with distraction before turning his attention properly to the soup.

"Sorry," he said, an apology easy on his lips. He leaned into the wall and traded a smile with Jungwoo across from them, accepting the pajeon that was passed to him. Ten spooned some soup into his mouth and took on the task of gazing over the rest of the crew while Youngho engaged with the gossip (it wasn't really gossip; everyone onboard was aware that the entire crew was privy to everything within a generous day, and any inaccuracies were easy to correct).

It was difficult to see the people in Ten's same row, Chenle and Jisung more or less a mystery to him, sandwiched as they were between Sicheng and Taeyong. Mark, though, was being his quiet, conscientious self right next to him, eyes wide as he took in conversation and mannerisms. To Ten's knowledge, Mark hadn't sat in on a full-crew meal since he'd boarded the Neo, but he seemed to be taking it well. He couldn't judge if it was Donghyuck's presence that did so or that Mark was simply incredibly resilient—the sheer noise of all of them together was bordering on raucous. Donghyuck, from Ten's strained periphery, seemed subdued and shaky while shining a little too hard and a little too bright. All the same, he was fiercely intent on Mark and the trio of his friends across the table.

Dongyoung, on the other hand, looked stable, but physically pinched. His appearance was not unlike that of Taeyong and Ten himself, perhaps unable to quite get himself to relax against his neighbor.

In light of that, Ten tried to relax, sinking against Youngho, the skin of his bicep warm against his cheek. Youngho didn't tense—simply hooked his hand into the small of Ten's waist like it was second nature, and asked Jungwoo for details on Kunhang's chaos.

Ten caught the tail of, "Seems molecular—" before hearing a sharp, "Yuta!" 

Intrigued, Ten leaned forward over his soup, dislodging himself from the half-cuddle he had going for him, but not removing himself completely from Youngho's grip. Halfway along the table, Taeyong’s right arm was stiffly holding his chopsticks, kimchi-wrapped rice pinched between, perfectly still as Taeyong stared right at Yuta with both annoyance and sheer betrayal.

The problem wasn’t apparent a first glance, but then there was Yuta.

Yuta's own right arm was propped at the elbow on the table, muscles flexed, fingers bent in something of a claw shape. Taeyong's arm jerked in an effort to move, his muscles locked, and Yuta flexed harder. Taeyong pouted heavily, pulling out the big puppy eyes, and Yuta laughed, leaning into his space so subtly, so gently, before relaxing his arm. 

The effect was immediate, Taeyong’s own arm jostled with the force of having been let go of Yuta’s Chaos. He almost dropped his chopsticks, but smiled in both triumph and injury as he stuffed the rice in his mouth before Yuta could immobilize him again. Ten almost leaned into Youngho’s shoulder to stifle a laugh when Taeyong again made a sound of indignation. "Jaehyun, I swear to god!"

Yuta pitched forward with laughter as Yoonoh leaned away from the accusatory chopsticks Taeyong was pointing at him. "Let me taste my food!" Taeyong almost whined. "Why are you two torturing me?"

And that was enough for Ten to give in and start laughing, too, which beckoned Youngho’s grip to tighten gently, warmly. He barely registered Yuta hugging Taeyong to his side and nuzzling into his hair for forgiveness as Taeyong let out a string of wounded complaints. Ten could hear Mark lean into Donghyuck to ask what was happening, could see the glossy look Donghyuck gave him at being so close when he was so fried with exhaustion. Across the way, Dongyoung seemed to be protesting when Yoonoh refused to pass the cucumbers away, and at the very end of the table, Taeil was not so subtly pushing water in Sicheng’s direction to ease the wan tint to his skin even as Taeil engaged in conversation with Dejun. 

There was a big difference between “crowded” and “full.” 

* * *

By the end of the meal, Sicheng had his head in his arms against the table, and Taeil was permitted to touch the ends of his hair on occasion. These touches allowed Kunhang the observation that Sicheng would close his eyes every time it happened, eyelashes like the flutterings of a dying butterfly. 

Though grateful he had been able step in to help Sicheng with Dongyoung, Kunhang’s hands felt numb and dull—like they were dreaming. He couldn’t fathom how Sicheng felt throughout his entire body.

Dejun had been talking animatedly to Taeil beside him, Taeil being the kind of rapt listener who said almost nothing, but asked a lot of questions. Hands aside, Kunhang felt warm in a detached, surreal way. He could swear the room had gotten brighter throughout their time, the earthy brown of the wooden walls bearing an undertone of a near peachy gold. Renjun had been impassioned in telling him that the Neo was alive, and an odd part of him wondered if a ship could love.

(“I was having a bad day,” Renjun had said, “and when I woke up the next morning, she’d grown flowers out of the floor by my hammock.”)

(“Oh,” Kunhang had said, and tried to step lightly if he had to walk through her plants from then forward.)

Renjun was sitting between Jeno and Jaemin down the line, which he could see if he leaned forward on the table. Renjun was gesturing, eyes visibly bright even from four people away.

“Are you looking at Renjun?”

Kunhang startled, jerking to focus on Kun, who was looking at him in a way that made Kunhang want to sink into his clothes. It wasn’t that he looked unkindly, or accusingly, or too probingly, but he was _looking_ in a way that not many people looked, and he felt like he’d done something wrong.

“Yes,” he admitted. “He’s my age. And so are Jeno and Jaemin and Donghyuck.”

Kun hummed. “They’re close. But they also know what you’re going through. Renjun’s a good place to start.”

Relief, for reasons Kunhang struggled to explain, trickled through him and made his fingers tingle with nerves. “Right.”

“Did you sleep okay?”

“I—”

Taeyong stood up with purpose, and collectively everyone’s attention switched over; all of their eyes so immediately on him made a blush reach up through Taeyong’s face. “Um,” he said, and Renjun raised his hand.

“Yes?” Taeyong said, almost startled and explicitly embarrassed in confusion. Kunhang just barely caught Yuta move, his hand coming to rest just above the bend of Taeyong’s knee as if to soothe. “Yes, Renjun?”

“Are we going to attack an ELE center?” His eyes _shone_ , mouth determined. His hair was a little long, grown past the tips of his ears, and his shirt was loose and faded, but rather than look like a ship rat, he looked like he owned every aspect of himself. Kunhang wanted to see it up close.

Taeyong hesitated, and his expression flinched between a smile and relief because the answer was, “Yes.” and Renjun had made it exceptionally easy to break the ice. “Yeah, we are.”

Kunhang inhaled, and could almost feel Kun’s gaze flick to him and away.

Ten had brought Kunhang to the kitchen earlier so Yoonoh could talk to him. He’d asked questions about his host parents, which were as numb a thing as his hands. He’d told Yoonoh that his host parents were developers and that they’d set the detector up themselves. They’d said they weren’t sure if it would work or not, but they’d be glad to have it up just in case, and Kunhang had tried to forget seeing his host father put a gun in the hallway drawers.

Kunhang had never held a gun let alone shot it. Yoonoh had told him that Taeyong owned a gun. Combat was dangerous for Taeyong, apparently, and a gun allowed him distance.

He wasn’t sure he’d begrudge Taeyong that option.

“We’ve got a day,” Taeyong said, and it was almost a suggestion. “Let’s work out the wrinkles and concerns tomorrow, because we have to act fast.”

Kunhang had told Yoonoh that because his host parents were developers, he wasn’t sure if the detectors had spread to the rest of the ELE. It very well might have been the first, or a prototype—or else they would have known it worked, right?

So they had time, but not a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry if there were some things that were confusing about this chapter. I don't really have a beta, and no one was able to look over this before I felt like I needed to publish. I did my best to be clear. Pay attention to details, and if you're confused about what happened among Taeyong, Yuta, and Jaehyun, you'll find the answers soon.
> 
> _Please_ remember that the next chapter will introduce a Mature rating and the tag "tw body horror." This is the last chapter in a while that will be smooth and sweet. I hope it tied some little loose ends so that we can start the next arc in peace ♡. Please start strapping in! Love you guys.
> 
> As usual, I would love to hear from anyone in the comments. My [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana) and [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1) are also open for pestering. I have a [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne) as well, but I ask that if you send me a tell, you sign it in some way (____ anon, anon 1, annonnie, etc) so that I know it's not a bot/random question.


	19. Hold It Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Please_ note the rating and tags change. It'll be difficult to skip the panic attack trigger, but luckily it's fairly abstract. To skip the body horror trigger, watch out for an asterisk (*) and then skip to the double asterisk (**) by doing a search. For a non-graphic description of what you missed, check the end notes!

** (Moment **

_“The family is like the forest: if you are outside, it is dense; if you are inside, you see that each tree has its own position.”_ \- Ghanaian Proverb

 

The next day spun like a top, so fast all the colors whirled together into something only vaguely reminiscent of reality. One of the first things any of them tackled was nailing down whether Kunhang and Dejun could come. A single moment of testing Dejun’s Chaos had everyone present and then everyone else through the grapevine conceding that he was, frankly, invaluable. 

That was cool and all, but—

“I can come too, right?”

Kun looked down on Chenle because he still physically could—someday Chenle would be taller than him. Someday. “No.”

“Then you can’t bring Jisungie,” Chenle shot back.

Kun wrinkled up his face, yanking one of the ropes to tighten it, then wiping the green-smelling oil off on his shorts. “Are you saying that because he’s younger than you?”

“Yes,” Chenle said, because _yes_ , but also, “and he’s traumatized. Last mission put too much pressure on him, and he thinks he failed. If I don’t go, he’ll know you’re letting him go because his Chaos is useful, and he knows he’ll have to perform, and he has performance anxiety.”

“Those are a lot of big words for a twelve-year-old,” Kun said, trying to hold back a smile as he started moving over to the next ropes.

Chenle threw his head back in a groan, trailing after him. “I’m _sixteen,_ gege.”

“Fifteen, actually, by Western standards.”

The ropes creaked under Kun’s firm hands, and Chenle tried to bite down on that offense. Kun would only knock him down to Western standards if he was trying to keep him off the mission, and if he was going to do that, then he wouldn’t lose making sure Jisung didn’t go either. “He really can’t go, Kun-ge.”

“But if you go, he can?” Kun’s gaze drifted over the horizon, touching on the grey of Chaos Relative’s Korean shore, then the day-white clouds. 

He was thinking.

That was good.

Chenle swallowed. “If I go, it won’t feel so stressful. It’ll be a full-crew mission, not just a people-who-are-useful mission.”

Kun sighed and backed away from the gunwale, then turned fully to Chenle. His hair was tousled by the passing winds, but he stood steady. “Kunhang might not even be going. Winwin probably won’t be either.”

“Then,” Chenle said, and came closer to Kun, getting into a little of his space so his gege could feel his urgency, “bench both of us. Don’t make Jisungie go. Don’t do that to him.” Kun searched his face and he let him, leaning into how Kun had to know by now that Chenle understood Jisung better than anyone else on the ship. Kun wouldn’t have seen Jisung’s panic attack after dinner last night, or the other times he cried, or the way his hands shook. “If I’m young, Kun-ge, c’mon. He’s younger than me. It doesn’t make sense.”

Only a breath passed before Kun reached to brush Chenle’s hair back, and the stiffness of resolve bled out of Chenle’s shoulders at the gesture. “You’re right. We’ll talk.”

“Promise?”

“Don’t need to,” Kun said, and gathered Chenle in for a loose hug. “I know I will. Now stop growing taller or I’ll make you walk the plank.”

Chenle laughed, and it was when it came out choked that he realized himself how desperate he’d been. “You wouldn’t.”

Kun only hummed.

** End) **

 

 

_“The mortal blood that falls in blackness on the ground before the victim's feet, what spells can call it back to life?”_ \- The Oresteia

 

“The principal wants you.”

The boy looked up from his desk, tips of his chopsticks between his lips as he flipped through his maths textbook. The class president was picking at her nails the same way she did when she had to give a presentation of sorts to the room. They chose her anyway, even though her neck went blotchy with nerves, because she knew everyone’s names and her smile was very pretty.

“The principal?” He struggled to think why the big man might want him, mind flicking over all of the most recent events. None of his teachers had called him out on anything particularly disruptive in a very long time—the last time it had happened had been an accident. His seat mate had been five seconds from vomiting all over, he’d been in the way, and he’d been zoning out so hard he hadn’t even noticed. He still felt bad about that, and not just because it had smelled awful in the room for the next hour.

“Yeah. I don’t know why—they didn’t say. And I’m not supposed to ask,” she said, and he smiled brightly enough at her to ease the nerves. Instead, she went kind of pink. “Th-they said you should go as soon as possible.”

He gestured to his lunch, tinged with daylight from his seat by the window. “I’ll finish my lunch and then head right over, Teng Liqin,” he said, and tried to subdue his smile this time. He didn’t know whether she had a thing for him or if he had something in his teeth. It could be either of those things.

She nodded, braid swinging as she turned, stiff, neck blotchy, and he felt _bad_. As soon as she was out of range, he pulled out his phone and shot a message to a classmate ( _is Teng Liqin afraid of me?_ ) before digging into the rest of his lunch.

* * *

The boy got a response to his message as he left his homeroom.

( _Y would she b afraid of u? Did u prank her or smthng_ )

He frowned. ( _ofc not_ ) Not that he hadn’t pranked someone before, but certainly not their class president.

( _idk then. Mb she thinks ur cute_ )

He didn’t grace that with a response, instead focusing on turning the right corners to the principal’s office. The secretary didn’t even look up as he slipped through the office door. He ended up standing there, drumming his fingertips on the countertop for at least twelve seconds. It gave him plenty of time to look around and notice that, speak of the devil, Teng Liqin had one of her award-winning paintings hung up behind the front desk. It was an abstraction of a tree in pinks and blues. The boy hoped the office bought it and was not simply taking advantage of her attendance.

Through the hallway windows to his left, he could see students start to squirrel to their classes, lunchtime twirling to a close. He wasn’t spared a glance, but he could see one student stuff an onigiri the size of her palm in her mouth all in one go.

It was a mood.

When the secretary finally looked up, he answered the question she hadn’t even begun saying yet. “I was called to the principal’s office. Can I go in?”

He watched bland irritation cross her features—the secretary was a known stick in the mud—before she jerked her head over toward the relevant door (the principal’s door, luckily not the exit). He attempted a smile anyway, and maybe he really did have something in his teeth. She didn’t seem to react positively to it either.

Running his tongue around his mouth with reserved suspicion, he walked over to the principal’s door and knocked before trying the handle. He opened to a big room, a strange room, one he’d never been in. There was a taxidermy fish on the wall above the principal’s desk, a centerpiece between two shuttered windows. A silly amount of books lined the walls on either side, a portfolio rather than a passion given the obscene amount of dust lining their spines and the dark wood shelves. The principal himself was standing and scrolling through some bland site on his laptop, leaning over it in such a position that gave a very clear impression of how badly his slacks fit.

“Feng xiaozhang?” the boy said, and tilted a small bow for when the principal turned around. The man was prickly in the face, eyes watery and pinched like smashed black olives. 

“Ah.” The olives inflated for a moment before the man circled around to joggle into his chair. The boy watched him, suspended in hesitance until the man flapped his hand at the chair opposite him.

The boy sat, drumming his fingers against his knees. The chair cushion was deflated and uncomfortable.

“Do you know why you’re here? Uh, mister—” The principal didn’t know his name. The boy opened his mouth, but the man continued, “—I hope you know why you’re here.”

Snapping his mouth closed, the boy scrambled one last time to remember what he may have done.His brain came up dry, the Idea Faucet creaking lamely. “I really don’t, sir,” he said, and watched the principal lean forward, elbows on his desk, thick fingers interlinked. The taxidermy fish gaped openly above his head. The boys feet tapped quietly on the ugly school carpet.

“I’ve caught wind,” the principal began, and his chair creaked as he sat back again, “that you were the one who wrote and published that article in the school paper.” He creaked forward, the forward-back pattern he’d started disconcertingly like the pit’s pendulum.

“Which article, sir?” The school paper was very much a bastard child to the boy—his unruly pride and joy that wasn’t properly his. Most of the articles he wrote were well within the confines of the school expectations; the other people in the club were just as diligent about the rules. With each paper, however, there were one or two hidden, anonymous articles that they published from submissions or straight from their own heartsleeves. The boy could only assume that the Principal Feng was referring to an anonymous article—all of the other articles were published under his open pen-name.

The principal leaned forward further, and despite the distance between them asserted by the desk, the boy felt oddly crowded. “You’re aware of how dangerous it is to publish concerning the ecoterrorists, mister—” This time, the boy didn’t open his mouth, simply waited through the beat where his name ought to have gone as his heart spiked. “—We give a lot of privileges to the school paper—” The boy wanted to object, because they didn’t, really. “—and I’m sure you’re aware of the rules that state politics are not to be engaged in.”

Words spun through the boy’s head like cotton candy, mind going fuzzier the more he thought. “I believe the article you’re talking about was anonymous, Feng xiaozhang.” The boy’s voice was one touch away from unsteady, and for once he was thanking his teachers that demanded excessive amounts of presentations.

Creak. Lean back. The fish gaped, and the shuttered windows were starting to feel intentional. “I have good word that the article is written in your distinct style. Not only that, but you received zero anonymous submissions for the week.”

The boy blinked, swallowed, mind spinning. He couldn’t deny the case for risk that he’d be throwing another student to the wolves (a gaping fish, an olive-eyed principal, closed windows). Not only that, but the accusations were true, and thinking under pressure had never been his forte. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Oh, it’s fine. The damage is done.”

Those words ignited an inexplicable fight or flight response in him, but he forced himself to stay seated even as there was a knock at the door. The principal leveraged himself out of his chair, but the boy stayed, heart thrumming, swallowing an unprecedented amount of cotton.

Politics weren’t meant to be discussed in the school paper because parents would have a fit—that’s what their mentor teacher said, but in light of the Shanghai coal plant disaster, it was difficult to avoid talking about something so close to home. He’d hoped, distantly, that it would be more permissible to write about China while studying at a Korean school, even if it was predominantly Chinese. He hadn’t imagined that it would be judged so severely that he’d be flung straight to the principal.

The door gave a whisper of a groan as it opened behind him. The boy was still processing what was going on and what on Earth “the damage is done” meant exactly, but twisted in his seat when no words were exchanged at the door.

Black.

Black.

So much black.

The boy turned away from the doorway so fast he almost choked on his inhale. 

The windows were closed.

The boy closed his eyes and breathed.

“I’m sure you know of the ELE, mister—”

The boy didn’t dare nod.

“They’re just going to prod this little Bait here. Quick and painless, just for safety. I’m sure you understand.”

There was a creak. Inhale. He opened his eyes. The principal was sitting.

The boy’s eyes landed on the Bait first, a sagging, slanted body with a dangerous favor for their right leg. Their entire head was encased apart from just a slit for their nose, a thin collar lining the black of their neck. Pictures of Bait had floated around on the internet for a long time. Some wore straightjackets, others were cuffed. Some were gagged, others were like this. In public spaces, Bait were nothing more than a shadow, a walking body of torture. 

According to the boy’s research, if a witch was hurt badly enough, their Chaos would kick in and go into overdrive. The ELE had keyed into the idea that if they could drag a pain response out of a Bait, they could get them to activate and serve as a convenient way to root out Seeds. Nip the little bastards in the bud. That meant these ELE in particular were Weeders.

The boy had pages upon pages written about Bait on his private blog, the immorality of it all enough to retch at.

Seeing one so close was a different experience, though. No picture could communicate the smell. The stench of sweat and something sharp. Like pain.

To the left of the Bait, one of the two flanking ELE officers moved, pulling something small and black from her pocket, those classic dark sunglasses dull in the low light. Bleached blond hear fluffed out from beneath her cap, mouth stern below her sunglasses. Her thumb pressed down on the tiny item she’d retrieved from her pocket, triggering a click that spat through the air from the Bait’s collar.

The Bait went immediately rigid, chin tilted back and cloth around their head stretched thin in a silent, wordless movement of torment. It was almost impossible to tell, but there was a slight wetness seeping from under the collar and down the Bait’s throat, a bleeding ring of shine.

“Stop—” The boy was in mid-gasp when _it_ hit. The activation. The Chaos. Every cell of his skin fizzled, the sensation sweeping over him from the tip of his nose, down his legs, curling his toes. It felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of fine, magmic debris at him as he stood against it, naked, burning. The boy writhed, feeling his bones stretch like they were elastic. His skin rippled with the sensation of peeling itself off his muscles in flakes, a pale, screaming memory.

He could barely feel the hand over his mouth, could barely think past his skin cracking apart and piling at his ankles like a sweater five sizes too large.

They had him partly out the door when the roiling pain stopped, leaving in an exhale. With the pain leaving, something pure and wild settling into him as warm as a father’s whisper. 

All around him, the lights were so bright, the grey-green carpets and yellowing tiles and black-clothed figures, and he wasn’t in pain anymore but the walls were tilting and swaying. His heart abused his ribs, bruising their fragile constitution, and he could hardly breathe. Feng Liqin’s art swelled and retreated, bulging like a bubble before tilting and returning, and the boy realized belatedly that this wasn’t Chaos. He was panicking.

The hand over his mouth tightened, hurting him where the fingertips pressed his cheek against his teeth. Something sharp prodded the small of his back, and even through the haze and the room swelling with each panicked breath, he knew what was happening.

With a powerful swell of fear, Chaos bloomed from him with simply a desire. A desire to run, to escape, to not have the fate of the poor beast bleeding from the neck limping behind them, tugged from a thin rope.

The fear settled in his throat and sloshed down and through him like silver wine, but the Chaos? It bloomed from his core, spreading from his stomach, through his arms and legs, tingling at his lips. He could see the secretary looking straight at them, wide eyes peering over her glasses, finally seeing.

The boy bloomed, burned, and the hand over his mouth jerked away with a spasm of alarm. A guttural cry leaked from the owner, the woman who had pressed the button. The boy saw her buckle over her hand as he twisted away from both officers, could see her face warp in agony. He had only that moment of sight before the other officer lurched toward him, a flash of silver slipping toward his stomach where he held the flowers that burned and bloomed.

In that same liquid panic, the boy lifted his hand toward the officer’s head and ducked his stomach out of reach. The officer smacked into his hand, sunglasses knocked to the floor with the dull impact, and the yowl of immediate agony was unearthly. His voice reached up through the boy, crawled through his skin and plumed up to the ceiling above them, shivering through the room and a pitch away from rattling the glass.* Under the boy’s palm, the skin of the man’s face went red and sticky, and the boy stood rigid in breathless shock. The skin swelled violently, rapidly, secreting fluid under the press of the boy’s fingertips. From red, it went purple, then black, going dry, shiny with plasma. The skin wrinkled into fragility right under his hand, almost leathery, the redness swelling outward, the blackness following in rays from the boy’s fingers and thumb. The colors reached for the corner of the man’s eye, across his philtrum, and the man thrashed like a doll. The boy gripped the fragile skin too hard in horrified revulsion for the man to make greater movements than spastic, agonized jerks. 

The skin of the man’s cheek gave under the pressure of his touch, and the boy staggered at the event, the flesh there caving and peeling inward like the broken seal of a chip canister. 

The boy screamed, then, watching the man’s eyes protrude and his lips split and bleed, pink fluid dripping through the hole in the side of his face and slicking the boy’s thumb. The blackness rippled, spreading, cells collapsing under his fingertips.

Stumbling back, the boy tripped on the edge of the carpet and fell, watched the ghastly result of his touch, curling like a scythe under the man’s chin, gaping mouth twitching, saliva dripping from the split in his bottom lip as his teeth glimmered wetly until they trembled and dropped from his skull. Click, click, clitter. 

The man’s eyes rolled back, lids gaping wide and red like his fluttering throat.

**Screams arced through the room like a flash fire, sucking the air upward to be drowned in the movement of the boy scrambling to his feet, staggering, falling toward the door out of the offices. Behind him, the untouched Bait felt around for the front desk counter, sagged against the wood top. The principal stood in the doorway, mouth agape, black olive eyes popped to drink in the hideousness before him. The woman officer sobbed over her hand as the man collapsed, twitching, maw gaping, bare and black and ruined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you skipped the body horror, here's what you missed:  
> The boy has a particular Chaos where he can destroy organic cell matter. When he defends himself against the ELE, he ends up decaying a good portion of one of their faces. It's as horrifying to him as it might sound to you.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been leaving comments ;; I've had a few moments of feeling really insecure about my writing and process, so every encouragement helps ease that just a little. You have my thanks and my love.
> 
> No spoilers for the next chapter this time ♡ but any guesses to who the boy is? With this chapter, you've met YangYang and Lucas both.
> 
> See you next Friday!
> 
> You can reach me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana) and [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1). I also have a [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne), but I ask that if you send me a tell, you sign it in some way (____ anon, anon 1, annonnie, etc) so that I know it's not a bot/random question.


	20. Flooded

_“Humans are born quiet; this is the nature conferred by Heaven. When it is stirred by things and moves, these are the desires of the nature.”_ \- The Record of Music

 

The boy fell through the front doors of the school and down the stairs, squeezing air in between shock and tears. His nerves and senses were flooded, the rancid smell of the man decaying in front of him clinging to his fingertips and the back of his throat.

He missed the last step of the stairs and he dropped to the pavement with a hiccup, the skin on his palms and elbows skidding against the gritty grey. A black blob of old gum grazed the pad of his thumb and the boy retched suddenly and with his whole body, shaking, not even registering his raw patches of skin as he shoved himself to his feet.

No one was outside, all of the students safe in their classes. If his eyes followed the path to the end of the school property, however, he could see the swell of a black van nestled against a dying primrose bush. A profound increase in terror darted through his bones like sharp lightning.

The boy almost fell again as he legged it for the bike racks, hands aching. All of the decorative, parched school campus swirled with heat, but he could hardly feel that way the sun drilled through his skin. He certainly couldn’t be blinded by the bright pavement when tears were intent on spilling from his eyes.

His bike lock clinked messily against the bars as he attempted to put the code in with sweaty, pained, shaking hands. He jumped when he heard a door slam way behind him, falling back in fear as he looked. The principal stood at the entrance and bellowed a name not even _close_ to his own, but spittle flew even from this distance, shining like glitter in the sunlight. His crimson tie was loose and crooked.

The boy sucked in breaths, the principal’s image narrowing and widening, tunneling as the man rushed down the steps. The boy cried out a half-swallowed sob, hands stinging as he turned back and gripped the lock.

“Don’t you _dare_ leave!”

The lock finally took the code, falling away, and the boy was up on his feet again in a singlebroken heartbeat, yanking the old bike out of the rack. He left the lock on the ground between a rust-red BMX and abandoned folding bicycle.

“ _Stop!_ ”

The boy swung, teetering, onto his bike and pushed—even as the pavement spun in front of his eyes. Once he started, faster than he’d ever gone before, he couldn’t stop, the proper realization of what had happened leaking down his spine like the smoke of dry ice.

Principal Feng’s voice melded with the heat of the air, warping into the distance as the boy’s hands and eyes and terror burned. The principal screamed and screamed, and the boy could imagine the students, tense with alarm in their classes, crowding the windows, and maybe someone he knew would recognize his back as he cut across the brown grass. He skidded through the dry heat, and prayed he wouldn't be hit by a car as he crossed the road, crying too hard to even try looking.

Could he even go home?

He wasn’t hit by a car, but there was the sound of a gun going off and a burst of pavement that shattered at his back wheel. He flinched, gasping, his bike swerving for a breathless moment as he nearly rammed right into the front lights of a parked car across the street.

Turning, he could see a figure climbing out of the black van and taking aim. It took everything in him not to pinch his eyes closed and wait for pain. Instead, he changed directions, jerking into the tiny alley of a shortcut between houses, and prayed.

He once had a neighbor who prayed to the trees and the stars. 

If the boy was who the world would undoubtably say he was, there was absolutely nothing better to pray to.

So he prayed to the sunburned trees and the invisible stars.

And the second shot missed.

The third did not.

* * *

The boy’s forearm warbled in blood as he slung himself off his bike, the left handlebar slippery enough in his grip that the whole thing keeled over and hit its wheels against his ankles.

Swearing bitterly despite his aching lungs and eyes, he rubbed his clean hand against the scuffed skin and left his bike behind.

Ahead of him, the Upo Wetlands stretched wide and green, the mountains a shadow on the horizon. The sky reflected in the waters, collecting dark clouds and banishing the heat of the sunlight off its surface.

The boy stumbled down one of the paths, dizzy with the pain from where the third bullet had pulled a long slice down his skin, elbow to wrist. He’d had to pull down so many strange and narrow shortcuts, biting his inner cheeks raw when he had to wait, gasping for breath, unsure if the flash of black he’d seen meant danger.

An hour later, though, blood unable to properly clot for his adrenaline and sweat, stinging salt and wind, he was here. The smell of mud and green and life-filled water reached up his nose and through his lungs, pulling at the alveoli and trenching itself in his veins. Wiping his aching palms on his shorts (carefully when it came to his left palm), he slid down closer to the water’s edge.

The tears started falling again by the time he nearly ripped his shoes off to avoid water sinking into the mesh. The wetlands plants curled around his ankles, placing leaves like soft hands against his skin.

“Please—” He choked on each inhale. He could still feel the leathery black of the man’s skin breathing phantom puffs of sour death on his face, the woman’s screams, the principal’s bellows. Mud leeched between his toes as his steps crawled toward the water. In the distance, he could hear the slam of a car door, and he couldn’t know if that was for him or not. He flinched anyway, and the tears bubbled up and forth, welling tracks down his cheeks. He slipped, staggered, got a faceful of the sky as he tried to regain his balance.

The blue and dark greys swam in his eyes. “Please,” he warbled again from his throat. “I’ve heard people disappear here. Take me. I don’t know what to do.”

Another car door slammed and he tripped further forward, reaching for the water, drowning already.

Just as a gunshot sounded, his next step was his last in the Upo Wetlands. 

The ground swallowed him whole, his stomach dropping like an elevator losing its suspension. The sky broke out in tears, and it was his final sight as the lizard’s eye of Chaos Relative closed.

* * *

He landed in a graceless heap, wetland water, mud, and flora a mess around him, and he gasped up at a ceiling of wood and lichen.

His arm stung, skin a muddle of blood and speckled water, and he had to catch his breath from the collapse. It was that moment of quiet, eyes tracing the ceiling, that he became slowly aware of the world rocking him gently, slowly, gently. White noise filled the background, water throwing itself against hollow bones that creaked and sang.

_Oh_ , he thought softly. _I’m on a boat_.

Dragging himself up, every part of him aching and warbling in the wrong key, he reached out to steady himself against a beam and dropped the shoes he still clung to against the floor. Except what he leaned against wasn’t a beam. It was too imperfect. 

He took in the space around him and saw shrubs, sprouts, mud, dirt, moss, and rocks. Something skittered too fast for his bleary eyes, and somewhere to his right, leaves rustled with a curious chirp. If he was on a ship, he was in middle hull—had to be. There were lights coming in from grates in the ceiling, the sun bold and shining. He could see some walls, but flora stretched out and burst and spilled in the light-dappled shadows, seemingly endless and stunningly wide. Plants sprouted and bloomed from the ceiling and walls, bursts of emerald and color. It smelled like a greenhouse except richer, more heavy, more clean, and more wild.

The boy sagged and let his fingertips graze over the soft wood of the beam, taking comfort in its velvet texture. It was a large root, maybe, too smooth to be a trunk, but too sturdy to be much else. His fingernails caught on some nicks in the wood, and he looked over.

 

_Winwin_

 

Down went more letters. Names, maybe, all following after the first:

 

_Dal_

_TY_

_Johnny_

_Jaehyun_

_Yukkuri_

_Dongz_

~~_Woo_ ~~ _Zeus_

_Ten_

_Haechan_

_Dandan_

_Injun_

_Nana_

_Jen_

_Lele_

_Jwitol_

 

The boy leaned his head to the side of the carvings, listening to the waves crash and slosh. He’d made it on a Chaos ship, though he’d never quite believed they were real. Unless he'd been shot in the heart, both he and the ship existed in totality, alive and concrete. And unless the afterlife was different than he expected, he hurt far too much to be dead.

And, if these carved names were any indication, he wasn’t alone.

The tears dripped new and fresh, and he had to stop himself from laughing through his sobs. His hands held tremors that wouldn’t stop, and the tears didn’t stop falling, and nothing stopped at all. He just burned and bit his lip through sobs he would have never believed were his own if he’d heard a recording just hours before.

He knew the process, the theories, the names. He'd been a "Seed," someone with room for Chaos in their belly and bones, fixed by some higher power. When a Seed was exposed to their first Chaos, they filled like a bowl, sopping with power. A Seed's first activation was their "Realization," and then they could take on the title—a witch, a pirate, whatever suited them. In a perfect world, maybe they could reject the title; they could discard the mantel if they needed to. But a perfect world wouldn't have witches or pirates or Chaos.

Forums had scrounged through the internet, trying to find the rhyme behind the people who were Seeds and the people who were not. It was near impossible to be sure as most witches disappeared almost entirely upon their realization. The world had gotten a few of its terms from self-proclaimed witches on the internet, but their existence was brief, flittering. As soon as someone outed themselves on the web, they were wiped within a day, if not within hours, and the most anyone could do was cling to the traces they'd left behind. Sometimes, friends disappeared. Sometimes, whole families disappeared.

The boy fished his phone out of his pocket, blessedly waterproof for both the wetland water and his tears, and searched for the text his dad had sent that morning.

 

**From: Lao peh**

_I love you._

 

**To: Lao peh**

_:P_

 

The boy smothered his laugh, his sob, his body dripping blood and marsh water and tears. _I killed a man_ , he wanted to tell his father. _I probably killed a man._ He breathed in. _I can’t come home. I love you too._

He slid down the root, careful of not marring the carvings with blood or mud, and closed his eyes. Waiting for the tears to stop, for his breathing to settle, for the world to stop spinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for updating later in the day! My sister's dog keeps interfering with my plans ^^
> 
> Have you liked the break from the main plot? I know I've enjoyed it (but it's okay if you didn't!), and I hope it's answered a lot of questions you maybe didn't realize you had.
> 
> Any guesses yet for who the boy is?
> 
> We'll be swinging back into the regular crew next chapter, so if you missed them, hold on a little longer!
> 
> As usual, I really love hearing from anyone in the comments. It's encouraging and always lovely to hear your thoughts! My [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana) and [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1) are also open for pestering. I have a [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne) as well, but I ask that if you send me a tell, you sign it in some way (____ anon, anon 1, annonnie, etc) so that I know it's not a bot/random question.


	21. Bloodhound

_“He who voluntarily confronts tremendous odds must have very great internal resources to draw upon."_ \- Thucydides

 

Dejun skimmed his fingertips over the folds of navy and black shielding his skin from sight ("We wear dark colors so we're less easily spotted," Jaemin had told him. "It's also why we keep our hair black. We want to be forgettable, even if pink's our best color."). The clothes he wore were Ten's, and if he pressed the stretched-out neckline of the cropped sweater to his nose, he could smell something warm and soft like black tea and cardamom ("Sorry I couldn't wash it, but it's pretty clean," Ten had said, grinning, the metal in his ears switched out to rings stained a dull black.). The gloves he'd been given were dark brown and unfamiliar, but they'd stretch to fit him if he wore them enough, and the mask over his mouth smelled of new cloth, a little industrial. It was a strange thing to smell on the Neo.

It wasn't yet dusk, the stars unable to peek out of the pretty yellow paint from the setting sun ("Unless there's been a fire nearby, we don't really get red sunsets here," Chenle had said just a moment before being called away by Yoonoh.). 

"Feel ready?"

Dejun jumped, elbows jolting up and jerking against Kunhang's sudden grip around his waist. Kunhang laughed, his voice bright and loud right up against Dejun's ear.

"Hendery—" Dejun complained.

"Guess not, if you're this tense."

Dejun slumped in his best friend's grip. They'd always been handsy if only because it was the best way to get either of their attentions. Yuqi had berated them more than once to get a room, but beyond the joke, the idea made Dejun's skin crawl.

"I'm just—what if I'm a mess?" Dejun asked, and turned in Kunhang's grip to face him. Kunhang tucked his chin to snag eye-contact and frowned.

Acknowledging that Dejun was serious, Kunhang leaned away just enough to give Dejun space, then pulled at one of his friend's earlobes. "If you can act in a play like an A-list celebrity, you can throw a few ELE off."

Dejun rolled his eyes and pushed at Kunhang's chest, watching the boy stumble a little to avoid a patch of baby grass. "One's life-threatening."

"Both kick in your fight or flight," Kunhang defended, smiling anew, and reached out to tap Dejun's temple. Kunhang's eyes were so bright in the sunset colors. "I'll be just beyond the earpiece, anyway, and they've worked in so many Plan Bs, Jun. Just forget what the risks are."

Dejun opened his mouth to say something, though he wasn't sure what, but his phone went off in a chirp and he fumbled instead. "It's time." He almost suffocated on the words, but then Kunhang was ruffling his hair with aggression, and his panic turned into a protest, then laughter.

"Break a leg." Kunhang smiled, aglow with yellow and optimism, and Dejun tried to pull on the same skin he'd become accustomed to donning when he walked onstage. As if the transformation was obvious, Kunhang whistled at his back, and Dejun tried not to smile as he ran for the other end of the ship. 

* * *

It still felt strange to be among so many of the crew without Donghyuck next to him, but he'd been acclimating to it during Donghyuck's injury period. They stood at the shore of South Jeolla Province, scuffing their shoes against the earth as they waited for the stragglers. While the tension was quietly tapping at their wrists and necks, everyone present spoke as naturally as if they were preparing for a meal. The sky was a young tangerine, skimming itself around the edges of clouds like flower pollen as the nearby waves hushed their secrets into the shore.

Mark had been lent some sandals in his own size from Sicheng—worn enough to be broken in but not enough to feel bizarre against his soles. Yuta stood close to him, and at some point, Jaemin had asked if Mark was comfortable having his hand held.

Mark looked at him, traced Jaemin’s features and the breath of blue tint to his hair that was a remnant of the blue kool aid dare Donghyuck had told him about. It was pretty, his tan skin offset by thehint of a cool tone. At first, Mark hadn’t been sure if the blue was real, but he knew now that he hadn’t been seeing something incredibly arbitrary.

Knowing that was comforting in a way.

“Sure,” he murmured, and held his palm out for Jaemin to curl his fingers around. Jaemin’s skin was clammy with heat and sweat. Mark glanced at him again, took in the grey ash under Jaemin’s dark eyes, and squeezed his hand to see a flinch of a smile from the other.

When Jeno and Renjun skidded down the gangplank, Jaemin let go, heaving a breath Mark almost didn’t hear. The sand kicked up behind Jaemin in little bursts as he took off toward them, then big arcs as Renjun turned right around at the sight and ran in the other direction. Jaemin’s laughter skipped and spun through the tangerine air. Mark watched as Jeno caught Jaemin around the waist and yelled for Renjun to keep running. 

The scene was beautifully incongruent with the tension of the moment.

As Renjun turned back around, heels sinking into the sand, his smile was visible even from the break of beach where Mark stood. Mark’s pulse hiked even before anything started happening to the bright picture, and he was almost ready when things started changing. The colors of the sky and water and sand all blended into a hazy whole, inverting and swirling as a riptide started flinging itself against Mark’s inner ears.

He forced himself to avert his eyes, to blink away the fog of hallucinations, even as some of the phosphenes behind his lids took shape and crawled toward the trio from his periphery. Measuring his breath, he instead focused in on the sigh Yuta gave, crowding out the white noise in his skull, forcing himself to be distracted by how Yuta’s mouth curved into something charming. Mark snagged a glance of Taeyong looking straight at that smile, too. The captain looked away when Yuta spoke. “Nervous?”

“Not really,” Mark replied, and bit down on his tongue to suppress his instinctive jolt when Yuta slipped an arm around his shoulders.

“Good. You’ll be with Johnny and Dejun, and their Chaos are well-suited to yours.” In fact, all four units had been carefully balanced, though there were the usual pairings—Ten with Taeyong, Yuta with Kun, Jeno with Jaemin. Mark had sat in on the planning, had been there when those pairings were hardly in dispute. Yuta had told him outright that each one was a locked-in pair. “Separating some of these would do more harm then good,” he had said, “There’s no reason to fix something that’s not broken.”

Renjun was pink as the morning sunrise when the trio finally joined them, their breaths swallowed to fit the pace of the rest of the crew. Irrational relief trickled through Mark’s lungs, but he forced himself not to reach out for one of the three and touch them to make sure they were real. 

From the edge of the group, Taeyong straightened up, pulling away from Taeil and the subtle pinch between the eldest’s eyebrows.

“Remember to check your earpieces when you’re out,” he reminded everyone, fixing and securing his own. “Communicate.” He rolled his shoulders once and sifted his fingers against his scalp, the orange from the sky glancing off the shine of his hair. His eyes were a different kind in that moment, their starry earnestness turned onyx. “Everyone take a deep breath.”

The collective inhale matched with the crash of a wave, and the exhale ebbed with the froth.

* * *

There was such a massive explosion of color when Jungwoo stepped out that he immediately tried to step right back through the portal. One horrid body of navy rose up from the cracked asphalt, flooding his legs as his heart did a suicide drop to his fingertips. He almost couldn’t see through the plumes of lilac and burgundy. Even Yoonoh gave off mustard smoke as he immediately pulled Jungwoo in, forehead knocked against his and heart so close Jungwoo could feel it beat.

_They should have never told him about the detector—they should have let him believe it was a normal tracker. They shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t—_

“Breathe, breathe Woo. C’mon, baby.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know. I know. Breathe.” He held him so tight it was nearly bruising, heartbeat surrounding Jungwoo like the thrum of a raptor’s wings. “We know what we’re getting into. It’s dangerous. We know.” His hands skimmed over the ridges of Jungwoo’s spine, and Jungwoo had his eyes closed, but he could still taste green the way others tasted lime.

It took too long to get him there, but things slowed down, and he stopped suffocating on mauve, and when he opened his eyes, the grotesque blend of mustard and lilac had slowly bled into a washed-out grey.

“Okay,” he said, and his voice sounded distant, but Yoonoh let go, so he must have said it after all. “Okay,” he whispered, this time, shaking like a the last petal of spring. Jaemin and Jeno stood on either side of them—they weren’t staring. Not at Jungwoo anyway. Jeno’s eyes were scanning the scarlet sky. Jaemin reached out for Jungwoo’s hand.

“We’ve still got four minutes, hyung,” Jaemin said, hand clammy but firm.

Jeno’s smile was almost blinding, transforming his face like a darling switch. “C’mon, Zeus.” Sometimes Jungwoo could swear to god his crew wasn’t real—that they were just a figment of his imagination. Too sweet, too fragile, too gentle.

Jungwoo exhaled, imagined the surf breaking when he reached the limit of his lungs, and finally brought himself to look at the building ahead of them. It was just out of the alleyway and across the street, proximity blessed by the overgrown plants spilling over the wall behind them. The street was old and not yet renovated, still prickling with character under the crimson sky.

_“Roll call,”_ said Dongyoung, voice soft in Jungwoo’s ear.

Jungwoo took in the stained concrete of their target building’s foundation, the three stories of brick and metal and glass disarmingly charming.

“Jae, team captain,” Yoonoh said, and Jungwoo could feel his eyes on him as he took measured breaths.

“Jen, your favorite dongsaeng.”

Jaemin gave a good-natured snort, hand still clutched in Jungwoo’s. “Nana online.” Jaemin let himself be led forward as they crossed the street, Jungwoo scrutinizing the wink of color from a precarious and dangling block letter above the doorway.

“It’s a bakery,” Jungwoo said, almost annoyed as soon as he registered the full message.

_“Woo?”_

“Zeus here,” Jungwoo apologized. “Hyung, it’s a bakery.”

_“I heard you. I’ll pass it along.”_

There were flowers, in fact, decorating the step—alive and well, which was surprising considering the crooked letter. Breathing more and more evenly the closer he and Jaemin got, Jungwoo could start to make out clearer hints of color. A fluorescent turquoise handprint manifesting on the glass entrance like a ghost smacking the door. Jungwoo didn’t jump. He just inhaled.

Yoonoh trailed behind, Jeno last of all. “See anything?”

“Just handprints,” Jungwoo admitted. It was a good sign, in a way.

The CLOSED sign was also crooked on its hook, and the longer he stared at it, the more it wasn’t quite right. “There’s something on the backside that I can’t see. Might be a tracker.”

Jaemin hummed and slipped his hand out from Jungwoo’s fingers before climbing the steps up to the front door. He crouched by the lock and settled his mouth into a tiny frown. “It’s not old enough for me to pick it.”

_“Johnny’s crew is coming in zero-two.”_

“If there’s a tracker, though—” Yoonoh said, and trailed off, watching as Jeno moved over to one of the side windows and settled his leather-clad hands against the glass. The slip of skin not covered by polyester black flexed as he pushed upwards, but the glass didn’t budge.

“There’s a cam anyway.” Jeno pointed into the corner of the doorway as he made his way back over. He rested his other hand on Jaemin’s waist. “They may’ve seen us already.”

Yoonoh cocked his head in consideration. “Yeah alright. The door opens toward us, too. Someone hand John the crowbar.”

* * *

Youngho with a crowbar and a purpose was something of a fever dream. He was so pleasant most days that the take-charge attitude could part oceans.

His team makeup was just himself, Mark, and Dejun—all teams coming in threes with Jungwoo as a “floater.”

“It’s going to crack the glass,” Youngho warned, and slid the crowbar into the crevice between the handle and doorway. Jeno and Jaemin fell back to join Mark at the edge of the street. Yoonoh was on watch for one end of the block while Dejun scanned the other, the latter boy with his thumbs hooked in the edges of his pockets.

Jungwoo watched the glass of the bakery door ripple a deep green as Yoonoh leveraged his weight, breathing out through his nose. The glass shattered with something like a pop and shimmer, spilling like pebbled ice, and there Youngho stood with the crowbar stuck just under the lock for no reason at all as the rectangular hole gaped open.

“Alarm?” he mentioned, voice just a quiet hum, and Jungwoo shrugged, simply watching the CLOSED swing and wobble, a flash of bubbling purple confirming his suspicions. 

“But we avoided setting off a tracker,” Jungwoo said, and watched Youngho pluck the sign up and off the hook remaining on the upper edge of the door.

_“Zero-six until the captain,_ ” said Dongyoung, and Kunhang must have said the same thingthrough Team A’s earpiece because Youngho jerked a nod.

“Catch,” Youngho said, and tossed the sign to Yoonoh, who had given up on watching the street anyway. He just barely snagged the string that supported it. Youngho gestured for Jungwoo to step through, who avoided the glass (a glimmering mud-brown) with a long stretch of his legs.

Yoonoh was the last to enter through the ruined door, and his first thought was that it didn’t smell like a bakery. It smelled like blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did it feel like forever since I last updated? Yikes. 
> 
> Welcome to the new arc—we'll be following this plot for a while, so strap in ^^
> 
> Important to note: Jungwoo's Chaos is a "passive Chaos." It's an extremely rare subtype that trackers can't detect. No one else on the crew is passive, though there are a few witches out there with the subtype.
> 
> As usual, thank you so much for the support ;; Tell me how you're feeling after the last two chapters? Is it nice to be back with the crew? 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)   
>  [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)   
>  [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	22. Lightning

** (Memory **

_"The stroke of the whip maketh marks in the flesh: but the stroke of the tongue breaketh the bones."_ \- Ecclesiasticus 28:17

He met Youngho online when he was thirteen on some stupid forum he could hardly remember. The English he’d learned when he was even younger came in handy then when the Chicagoan had decided to adopt his shaky pubescent mind. Even then he’d been using the name he’d given himself—Yoonoh—and Youngho had always been Johnny—online and in his head since thirteen.

It was the summer he went to visit Youngho in Chicago that he came out (not because of or for Youngho, but the boy certainly had helped), and the double whammy had went right ahead and flung him right out of his parents’ willing range of protection. They’d called him back a day before he was supposed to catch the flight home saying they’d cancelled it. He wouldn’t be coming back. When he had gained some more sense, they’d purchase his ticket again and he’d be welcome home.

With shaking hands, he’d told Youngho, and Youngho had told his parents, and Youngho’s parents sat Yoonoh down at dinner and said he could stay if he wanted. They’d never called him anything other than the name he’d chosen.

He’d been fifteen, and more than a dozen expensive calls with his parents later, some weeks had passed. The wrestling had been horrifying and isolating, and in the end, they gave over his school and medical records, but wouldn’t say whether he was written out of the will or not.

He still didn’t know.

* * *

Two years later, the first people started disappearing and no one knew why yet. Youngho’s mom worked for a renewable fuel company and his dad volunteered at a local greenhouse, so Youngho was a lot more environmentally aware than the average nineteen year-old. So was Yoonoh by virtue of living with them and seeing the sheer fury of Youngho’s mom slapping a newspaper on the table and ripping into people’s inane unwillingness to “do actual goddamn research.”

When some speculative, suspicious articles came out online about the disappearances and tied them to small-scale disruptions in certain major businesses, the Suh family plus Yoonoh mulled it over together during breakfast.

Youngho and Yoonoh were probably part of the very small number of witches who could actually tell their parents (surrogate, in Yoonoh’s case) what was happening when they Realized. Against all odds, it had occurred in the car as they were driving Youngho to university, and they would never know what caused the activation ripple.

It hit Youngho first, but aside from his body locking up like a board, it was difficult to tell. Youngho would swear later on that it wasn’t painful, and Yoonoh only believed him partially, because his own was absolutely excruciating. Every one of his senses went into overdrive, blasting him from the outside in, taking every thread he’d sewn to tether himself gently to the world around him and setting them ablaze all at once. As soon as it started, everything cut out, every string breaking, and everything was dark, and there was no sound, there was no sight or scent or touch. There was everything and then nothing, and it felt like hours within seconds.

He’d been utterly unaware of Youngho’s parents pulling over, was only mentally there for the aftermath, them tugging him bit by bit back into reality. Youngho’s mother’s breath had crashed into his ears like the beats of a tiny bird’s wings. Youngho himself was huddled against the door nearest his seat, hugging himself, lucid but pale, sweating, shaking, smaller than he’d ever been. His dad had been in absolute tears, murmuring prayers under his breath for his two sons, touching Yoonoh’s hair and Youngho’s knee.

For obvious reasons, Youngho didn’t end up going to university.

** End) **

 

 

 _"Disdain is the privilege of those who, like us, have been assured by reflection of their superiority to their adversary. And where the chances are the same, knowledge fortifies courage by the contempt which is its consequence, its trust being placed, not in hope, which is the prop of the desperate, but in a judgment grounded upon existing resources, whose anticipations are more to be depended upon."_ \- Thucydides

 

They rid the premises of two more detectors before Taeyong’s unit stepped through the shattered glass. That was the cue for Yoonoh’s team to move onward, leaving a room of empty displays and a rose-and-white checkered floor. Jeno had had the voice to point out that everything was very clean, the tiles almost squeaky they were so new. The ceiling, however, housed some cobwebs in their corners behind fake plants and around its lifted and wiped-clean menus.

“It’s stuff you can’t see from the windows,” Jaemin said, leather fingertips checking the booth tables for dust and coming up grey-free.

They could all feel the quiet confirmation of suspicion settle in their joints like a storm in arthritis—the trackers were already a dead giveaway, but the silly, fastidious nature of this empty bakery made it plain as a confession document.

_“Dal in zero-six. Time to move.”_

Yoonoh stepped around the counter for the employee door, decorated with cute drawings of vines and leaves. It felt blasphemic, but there wasn’t time or space for anger. He only pushed, shouldering past the pretty painted nature with his phone out for light. The smell of dust as the door coughed open to admit him was intense. He sneezed on an involuntary reflex, shuddering to catch the on switch next to the door.

That’s when an alarm went off.

“For fuck’s sake,” Yoonoh blurted, could barely take in the room before he was scrambling for the petty burglar beeper, heart pounding in his throat. There was dust and dried mud everywhere, every scrap of cleanliness left behind in the main room. The flickering fluorescents were harsh, painfully colorless as Yoonoh struggling with the device. It was just a standard alarm, but it was just as bad as anything else.

“Move,” Youngho said, urgent, and Yoonoh was barely able to duck out of the way before Youngho swung. The alarm cracked immediately under the blunt force of the crowbar, piecing apart and falling in chunks to the floor as Youngho repeated the motion again and again. The alarm drowned on its own voice, gargling almost in a pitiful whine.

Despite Youngho being the only one moving in aggression, they were both heaving breath, eyes trained on the far door, waiting, waiting. 

Nothing.

"God." Yoonoh's voice trembled on the word. "The suspense is killing me."

Youngho managed a choked, unsure laugh before going back to the main room, replacing his presence with the rest of Yoonoh's team. The room was simply a filthy storage place, absent of anything but grime-covered boxes. Yellow stain breathed from the papered walls, cobwebs sunken across any available gap, and something of a horrifying discolor was creeping out of the corner near the door they entered in from. The scent of it all stung Yoonoh's nose, and even Jeno's face wrinkled in distaste.

His entire team was tense with anxiety, avoiding the wires and barely-there tinniness of the alarmin its prolonged death throes. Jaemin tapped a box with his toe and swallowed a noise of disgust as filth flaked away from its cardboard exterior. Jungwoo entered the room with caution, and Yoonoh was privy to the face of panic that folded over his entire expression.

His reaction was no doubt due to the sheer disease the room could breed.

"How does a room even get as dirty as this?" Jaemin asked, currently horrified by the crunch of something invisible under his boots as he approached the only other door in the room. One of the lights blinked out in a random last breath and Jaemin startled, giving a wide-eyed stare to the last fluorescent cylinder alive.

Jeno gave a gagging cough as he opened one of the boxes and it wheezed a gasp of dust.

There were too many signs that the place wasn't utterly abandoned, but this back room contended that belief fiercely.

"Jungwoo?" Jaemin asked, recovered from his temporary spook and gesturing to the door.

Jungwoo gave a tight shake of his head, breathing short and restrained. "Everything is bad."

Jaemin swallowed, but nodded with understanding before shooting Jeno a look. Jeno, wiping his gloved hands off on his jeans, made his way over, circumnavigating a certain lump of _something_ on the floor. 

"Permission to proceed?" Jeno said, reaching out for the round knob. It was crusted with something dark and grimy, but Jeno seemed to have projected himself elsewhere in order to cope.

_"Permission granted,"_ said Dongyoung, and Yoonoh nodded in affirmation, closing the space between the younger boys and himself.

A wave of cold brimmed from the crack, metallic and stale, and all the different sensations were really starting to disorient Yoonoh, his stomach pinching in discomfort.

Jungwoo, when Yoonoh turned to look, jerked his head, mouth agape, and seemed close to tears again. Yoonoh hesitated, almost moved in time to tug Jeno out of the way, but it wouldn’t have made a difference.

A _thing_ flung itself out of the dark stairwell beyond the door, knocked against Jeno's shoulder, then dropped with a crack on the ground between Yoonoh and the boys. It was something of a cylinder or canister, but it immediately started spewing something and Yoonoh's Chaos fizzled in alarm, the sting reaching his senses before anyone else's. On instinct, he kicked the canister into a far corner, watched the trail of gas and a decaying cardboard box cave from the projectile. And then he shoved. He shoved Jeno and Jaemin through the same door, panic and the sting swelling in his lungs.

"Go! Jungwoo go back!"

He barely saw Jungwoo stumble back through the previous swinging door, saying something to the other two teams, before Yoonoh slammed the stairwell door closed to darkness.

* * *

Jungwoo's entire vision was a horrid shade of rotten apricot wen he threw himself back into the entrance. "Gas!" He was choking on spoiled fruit, gagging at the smell and sound and taste of the clouds scudding his body. "Get out!"

He felt someone grab him by the wrist, could see a blurry form of ash blue through the orange, a slice of early-morning fog running through his veins. Stumbling as he was tugged along, the apricot grew more and more vivid in his periphery, swallowing him whole in the folds of its skin. He knew, distantly, that he was sobbing, his innards heaving upward to throttle him and rip his throat to shreds.

“—oo. Zeus. _Zeus,_ baby.” There were hands tugging through the strands of his hair. Taeyong’s, probably, given the deep voice crooning in his ear. The colors ebbed away from the warmth of Taeyong’s palms. “Breathe, honey. Breathe with me. We’re out. I’m sorry.” Jungwoo choked on his hiccuping breaths, trying to swallow the ones fluttering unnecessarily between his heart and nerves. Taeyong’s eyes were so big, so dark, and the colors faded. “There we go.”

Jungwoo blinked away hot tears, shoved his fingers up to his eyes to rid himself of them. Somehow everyone had made it down the stairs in front of the shop without him remembering, but that didn’t surprise him.

If he looked back, the shop within its glass and brick was hazy with the polluted sunrise of gas.It tinted just outside the shattered door lazily, like a hand beckoning. He repressed a full-body shudder, breath and heart still fluttering too weakly. His head ached.

“Do you want us to send you back?” Taeyong asked him, hands having fallen down to clasp Jungwoo’s own.

Jungwoo bit back the rise of heat climbing his throat and shook his head.

“Okay.” Taeyong was gentle, jostling Jungwoo’s hands almost playfully before letting go. “We’re going to find the back entrance.”

_“Zero-two until Dal. Team B is not in immediate danger.”_

Before Jungwoo could even nod, there was another explosion of color, a venomous mint green, billowing for his right and pricking at his pores. 

He staggered.

He cowered. 

Ducked out of Taeyong’s hold to cover his head.

Squeezed his eyes to black. 

Everything erupted in plumes of acrid periwinkle.

* * *

The severity of Jaemin’s grip on Jeno’s forearm would leave marks for weeks, but he would never shake him off. Not when—

“I can’t see.”

Jaemin’s breathing was too short and too light, touching the shell of Jeno’s ear. Both he and Yoonoh were already fumbling for their phones, Jaemin too stiff, too afraid to move.

Yoonoh’s shone first, then Jeno’s—twin white lights that spun their way down the stairwell until they hit a round glint. Jaemin gasped, and both Jeno and Yoonoh felt a wave of petrichor and a hint of iodine pull past them, billowing in a sheen of indigo to Yoonoh’s eyes and solidifying just in time.

They all flinched at the gunshot, the action lighting up the stairwell for a blinding moment to show two forms. Jaemin cringed when the bullet hit his shield, eyes forced wide, arms crossed over each other this time to avoid another shattering (“Bad form,” Ten had told him, “Next time make an X. It’ll provide better support.”). The impact still made him stagger, shoulder blade hitting the closed door behind them. The second gunshot, the third, and his vision was starting to white out—almost anything was more sustainable to block than a bullet.

He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, bracing himself for a fourth shot that never came, and when he opened his eyes, Jeno was gone and a whole gunman was standing inside his shield.

Jaemin swallowed a scream, witnessed the disorienting moment where Yoonoh socked the ELE right in the face and sent their head slamming into the wall with a sickening crack. Jeno was somewhere down there fighting the other body in the dark. Yoonoh kicked the body of the ELE and snagged the gun from their curled fingers before dashing down the stairs. He pulled Jaemin along with him even as the edges of his vision sparked with aftershock.

The light of Yoonoh’s phone flashed against Jeno for a moment, enough to reflect off the sting of electricity in his gaze. The other ELE was downed in another second, shuddering in a critical moment when Yoonoh’s expression gave a telling twitch. Jeno’s elbow connected with the officer’s temple and they crumpled to the side. Jaemin looked away when Jeno went as far as to step on the downed ELE’s face. The sound of their nose breaking was still very audible.

Yoonoh crouched to grab that officer’s gun as well, tucking it at the back of his pants.

_“Report.”_ Dongyoung’s voice was severe, demanding in a tone badly protecting a wave of anxiety.

“Safe,” Yoonoh said, steadying his breath and heart with calming breaths. He turned his gaze to Jaemin. “Are you injured.”

Jaemin shook his head, but pulled his sleeves to his elbows to bare his forearms. The welts there were already forming, an angry red that might just blister given enough time. Yoonoh squinted at them and nodded. “Jeno?”

Jeno also shook his head, slipping off one glove to wipe the sweat of his palm on his pants.

“No one is injured,” Yoonoh said aloud, confirming for Dongyoung’s sake, and there was a barely-there sigh from the line.

_“Good. Assessment?”_

“Two ELE officers, both incapacitated and disarmed,” Yoonoh said, breath already steadied. He looked for the officer at the top of the stairs to confirm that they still weren’t moving. They weren’t. “I’m going to take my earpiece out, Dongz. It’s dark down here. Permission to take them out?”

_“Permission granted. Be careful. Jen is responding now, clear?”_

“Clear,” Jeno said, tugging his glove back on and flexing his hand for the ache that was settling against the bones of his knuckles.

Yoonoh plucked out his earpiece and slid it into his pocket. He held an unnecessary finger up to his lips as a reminder to Jeno and Jaemin, and closed his eyes.

Jeno downright held his breath, and Jaemin barely breathed at all until Yoonoh’s eyes flickered open and he smiled. “Want to go toward them, or away?”

_“Wait for backup, Jae, before being reckless,”_ Dongyoung hissed, and Jeno relayed: “Dongz said to not be reckless. Wait for backup.”

Yoonoh raised his eyebrows, smile widening until his dimples were deep. “I can hear him.” In the dim light of Yoonoh’s single light, Jeno having put his away while the shield was still up, they could see a mild flush of embarrassment touch Jeno’s neck.

“We’ll try the other direction, then. No danger until backup,” Yoonoh murmured, still smiling in a gentler way. He gestured to the hallway behind Jeno and stepped over the body. “No time to dawdle, though. They heard the gunshots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys are enjoying ♡
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)   
>  [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)   
>  [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	23. Tremor

_“… the palm of courage will surely be adjudged most justly to those who best know the difference between hardship and pleasure and yet are never tempted to shrink from danger.”_ \- Thucydides

 

Renjun had only been on one proper mission before, and the Coal Plant mission had been almost _easy_ in a sense. He’d been in Dongyoung’s group, so they’d broken the compound fence and slid through the gap, approached the building, and any people they encountered hadn’t seen them coming.

Even then, his heart had been flush in his ears as he’d locked in and took things in stride.

This, though. This was bad.

Their hyungs were fastest, tossing him, Mark, and Dejun out of range of the gas cloud billowing from the alleyway. Jungwoo was already out of range, back against the brick of the building and behind the stairwell with his hands over his eyes. The three hyungs—Taeyong, Youngho, and Ten—stood apart from each other, the mass of chemical white swelling before them. Within the gas, there was a smudge of grey.

Taeyong’s gaze narrowed in and his fingers curled. His snap was always louder than it ought to be, and upon hearing it, Ten relaxed into a pretty readiness.

At the snap, there was a loud clatter from within and then the grey became blacker and blacker until it burst from the cloud like a monster coming for Taeyong’s throat. Its gas mask and all-black made it nothing less than that—no skin showing which, to Renjun, immediately said something about the nature of the cloud.

Ten moved, launching himself between Taeyong and the ELE as the figure gave a muffled scream from inside the mask. The ELE pulled their right fist back, tension and fury alive in the strain of their muscles. Ten did the same but with his left, fast but lazy, movement soft and relaxed. 

As the fist moved to make contact, Renjun felt a crackle of Chaos, and the figure’s arm went limp and soft. Ten’s arm tightened and swung toward the undefended head of the ELE, and just as his knuckles approached the mask, the silicone, neoprene, and rubber crumbled away like ash. 

The smack of skin on skin, knuckles to a nose, the noise of it breaking was lost in the wild scream of its owner. Taeyong took a step away, and Renjun got a glimpse of the pure, uncontrollable rage in the ELE’s eyes above the splatter of crimson painting their cheekbones. Their pupils were huge, flashing in the horrifying composition of their face. Even as their nose leaked blood. Even as Ten went further to incapacitate them, their fury warbled in the froth of blood at their lips. 

The effects of Taeyong’s Chaos were always nightmarish, but seeing the victim’s eyes was always the worst part, and Taeyong sidestepped it all as Ten handled the ELE’s continued efforts to get at their captain with their fists and fingers.

The next thing happened faster. He heard Taeyong’s fingers snap on the next blob of grey, but this time there was no clatter. This time, there was the sound of a gun being cocked.

Renjun went still despite the shaking in his chest and, over the loud heartbeat and sounds, breathed, eyes narrowing in on that same blob and giving his intent a direction. His Chaos felt like mist rolling behind his skin, cool and lucid.

Stepping outside of his body, after all this time, was as easy as breathing.

One form, his real one, would be as still as ice behind him and freezing when he returned. This form was a mix of consciousness and soul and unlike his real form, this one could _move_.

Sprinting forward, he heard the clitter of the gun being readjusted, the scream as he approached the cloud and threw himself forward. The instinct to close his eyes won over for a breath as the bullets scattered like bubbles through his limbs, and the scream turned into one of something else as not a single one connected.

There were four other bodies in the cloud—the one that had shot at him and three moving to the edge of the cloud with guns cocked and ready.

The one unloaded another magazine into his Chaos body, but he was already snapping back into his real one.

The first ELE was a mess on the asphalt, and before Renjun could open his mouth to tell everyone the numbers, the maw of Chaos Relative opened up behind them. There was Taeil with his shorn hair under a cap, gloves off, stepping out of the adjacent alley way with his eyes bright above his black face mask. Kun and Yuta stepped out behind him, one foot in a second before Taeil’s palms smacked together in a clap that almost shattered something in Renjun’s chest.

For that single moment in time, it felt as if the entire world exploded.

* * *

Yoonoh could feel the impact even from underground, his jog staggering as he ran into a corner at the sudden shudder through the building. Even worse, his ears started to keen from the intrusion, a sound too loud for them to adjust to immediately.

“Jesus Christ—” he sputtered, shaking his head to rid his ears of the whistling sound of pain and looking to Jeno for an explanation from Dongyoung.

“What happened?” Jeno whispered, eyes shot wide as he held to the wall. Jaemin was hugging himself and staring at the ceiling, grimacing at the dust that fell.

Yoonoh could hear Dongyoung through Jeno’s earpiece, safely not drowned out by his hearing’s miniature shock. _“Dal jumped in.”_

He had to bite his lip in order to keep himself from laughing, but then there was a distant, but much closer ruckus building in strength. Tuning in despite the ringing getting louder as a result, he could make out that same mess of footsteps they’d been trying to avoid for several minutes now. They couldn’t hide—he’d had his Chaos active for the entirety of the time they’d been running and would set off any tracker worth its money.

Yoonoh beckoned his two dongsaengs to keep moving at a clip this time.

“Dongz, they’re still coming for us. Either the other teams have to be faster or we gotta turn around,” he said loud enough for Jeno to hear, and Jeno relayed. They’d stuck Jaemin in the middle so he could throw up a shield on either side if necessary.

_“Hold tight. Wait on me.”_

Yoonoh tilted his head and gave a puff of an exhale. The hallways were dingy, but nothing like the disaster that was the storage room—the metallic cold scent was still incredibly agitating, though, and if this was an ELE center, he'd hate to be one. The walls were plaster to the touch, but it felt like they were running through ventilation pipes, each step painfully loud, echoing down the hall as they passed rare but nondescript doors. They'd opened a few Yoonoh was sure didn't have a heartbeat in them, but they'd been dead ends, and it would be a bad idea to stop and wait. Even for an ambush.

He took two deep breaths and picked up the pace, counting the seconds until Dongyoung told them they could either turn around or set themselves up in a room.

Something else happened first, though, and in the face of that, nothing else mattered. He smelled fear and hurt and blood, and the combination was one he remembered intimately.

* * *

He'd woken up dried over like he'd developed a second skin, covered in scabbing and tears and filth overlain by a layer of humid heat. Having fallen over while passed out, he had been able to feel the imprint of the ground on his cheek, a blade of wild brush stuck to his skin by salt and sweat. The boy's back had cracked a hundred times over as he'd lifted himself up onto his feet, legs shaking in exhaustion and drained adrenaline, and further rocked by the waters the ship rode.

A cluster of butterflies had burst in front of him with his first step, and it wasn't until then that he'd noticed the hundreds of tiny flowers that had bloomed between his arrival and his waking. They had been clustered around where his body had lain, bursting from the soil and grass in sweet lilacs and blues. It had made him shake with something he had no faculties to compute.

Pulling himself along with roots and trunks and branches as support, he had found his way to the ladder leading upward out of the orlop deck. The sky had been ashen with the beginnings of twilight, hints of purple coming from the last reaches of the sun.

The entire ship seemed to be made of Korean flora, drenched with summer flowers and green, the browns dark and rich, the masts reaching up like hands of freedom. Population-wise, the ship had seemed to have zero occupants, but as he'd crept to the side of the craft, there was a small congregation onshore. Clad in black, their image had at first elicited a tremor crowding through his bones. To his bleary sight, the blips on the sand had held neither leashes nor guns, and aside from the initial reaction, he had not been afraid. 

He'd watched as whole sections of the group had split off and disappeared through holes that opened and closed three separate times. The holes had gaped like a royal eye might, hazy for a moment, but strikingly vivid even from afar. When the last group had been left, the boy had decided to move. If fate had decided something different for him, it wouldn't have spat him out on a different ship at a different time. 

He wasn't positive how any of it worked, but he was deciding this for himself.

* * *

Yoonoh had come to such an abrupt halt that Jaemin nearly slammed into him, too busy looking over his shoulder often enough to be there for Jeno as well. Yoonoh steadied him, glancing back the way they came, gears turning visibly in his head.

"Hyung?" Jaemin asked, the suddenness shooting him through the limbs with panic.

Yoonoh had the nerve, as always, to smile at the worst moments. "The Bait's close."

"What?" Jaemin said, but he'd heard—regardless if Yoonoh repeated himself or not (he did).

_"What?"_ It was Dongyoung this time, and Jeno didn't even have to relay before Dongyoung registered Yoonoh's reduced voice, _"Shit."_

"Do I have a go?" Yoonoh said, and Jeno barely even started repeating it before Dongyoung responded.

_"Yes. Shit. Just be careful."_

Jaemin was objectively terrified by the vitality that spread through Yoonoh's body language at those words, sending a spark into his eyes like they weren't locked in the underground of an ELE center. Seo Yoonoh had never been known to be careful.

Yoonoh took one deep inhale before setting off again, but faster this time. It wasn’t difficult to keep up—it was just making Jaemin’s heart beat two times faster than normal to be diving straight in.

The hallway was utterly nondescript with the same metal doors and plaster walls with brick paneling. It was cold and impersonal and if Jaemin were wandering alone he would have punched anyone approaching on instinct. As it was, Yoonoh’s Chaos was invaluable because they _wouldn’t_ be running into anyone.

Jaemin had once asked what humans smelled like and Yoonoh had sat there thinking for so long Jaemin hadn’t been sure he’d heard. “Like humans,” Yoonoh had finally shrugged. “Everyone smells different but the human bit is like explaining water.”

Another time, Yoonoh had enhanced Jaemin’s senses when he’d asked (politely). It had been both exhilarating and exhausting, and the plum he’d eaten at the time haunted his best dreams. He could imagine to an extent what it must be like for Yoonoh to be “switched on” at the moment, his sense of smell cranked up perhaps to avoid ruining his ears with the pounding steps of his crew mates—no matter how quiet they were trying to be.

Yoonoh slid to a stop in front of a door that looked exactly like all the rest, then held his finger to his lips again as he pressed his ear to the thick metal. Jaemin could imagine Yoonoh would be able to hear the war drum his heart had conjured for itself.

With quiet hands, Yoonoh put up two fingers, then made a heart shape. Again. Two fingers, a heart, and Jaemin nodded with a jerk. Jeno readied himself.

Yoonoh opened the door.

The mass of raw Chaos that hit the three of them was suffocatingly fetid, rolling down Jaemin’sthroat like sour water. Next to him, Yoonoh retched for a moment before shaking himself free, and Jaemin tried not to gag on the sensation, pushing through the doorway and crossing his forearms to throw up a shield before he could see a damn thing.

Jaemin tried not to think about it too much, but seeing Mark back at the construction company had been horrifying, but it hadn’t felt _real._ He supposed that was the goal of the ELE—Bait were only human-shaped, all features blocked out by cloth and the nervous devotion to not _look_ in their direction.

This felt different.

In the middle of the room was the Bait slumped in a metal chair, wrists chained out to the floor in a drooping cross. Everything beyond the doorway was absolutely freezing, marrow-chilling, and the Bait was swathed in black from head to toe. The only indication of life was the haze of white where the Bait’s mouth should be, appearing and disappearing in frantic puffs as a very tall ELE held a silver blade to their neck.

Jeno didn’t even wait for a signal, and so Jaemin was left with his best friend being replaced by some 6-foot-something nightmare of immorality. The ELE stumbled and slashed out with the blade before Jaemin could adjust a proper shield. Not that it would have mattered. 

The way slashing attacks worked never failed to trip him up—he couldn’t calibrate his Chaos to match the points of contact.

Instead, he took the strike, too startled to move away in time, and barely registered the blood splitting from the skin of his hand as he tripped backwards away from the monster.

He watched as Yoonoh put the ELE in a headlock, heard the snarls, watched as the absolute beast sliced at Yoonoh’s forearm before his hyung slammed a fist into their expression. Once, twice, and Yoonoh was dripping blood. So was the ELE’s face.

They had a prominent nose. Now broken. And Yoonoh dropped them to the floor like a rubber doll.

“Jaemin.”

Jaemin shuddered.

“Jaemin oh my god let me see your hand.”

_“What happened?”_

“Jaemin got hurt,” Jaemin heard Jeno say, hushed.

_“Jesus christ, Jaemin.”_

He could feel the wetness of blood where he held his hand against his stomach, but god, Yoonoh was trailing droplets and hadn’t said a word.

Jeno was standing behind the still Bait, looking stunned, eyes flicking between the crimson on the tiled floor and the way Jaemin cradled his hand.

“I’m fine. I’m fine we don’t have time.”

His glove was sliced open through the palm and between his middle and ring finger, soaking and weeping from the leather. His nerves weren’t firing yet from the shock, and he was still trying to breathe through clotted waves of the Bait’s Chaos. It smelled like raw, heated metal and maybe there was a hint of something underneath, but Jaemin could never guess what it might be.

“Ask Dongz how long.”

Jeno dumbly repeated like a mere husk, and Jaemin knew already he wouldn’t be able to be upset with him for acting too fast. He’d be beating himself up for months for this moment if they got through it at all.

_“They’re finding an entrance now.”_

“Tell them to hurry the fuck up.”

Jeno repeated as Yoonoh strode over to the Bait and looked for the seam he could use to peel the mask off the poor thing’s face. 

Jaemin wished he’d gotten some warning before Yoonoh did it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a week hiatus because I got discouraged, but it was a brief moment of weakness. Even still, consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed this chapter ;; it's really... hard when all of the interaction given to something you love is invisible or silent. Still, I'm really grateful to see that people are reading and following along. I hope that you are loving it as much as I am.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)   
>  [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)   
>  [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	24. The Ring of a Warning Bell

_“Their swaying bodies reflected the agitation of their minds, and they suffered the worst agony of all, ever just within the reach of safety or just on the point of destruction."_ \- Thucydides

 

_“No one_ look,” Taeyong called with such command that Dejun squeezed his eyes closed on instinct alone. The world smelled like burnt oxygen and hair and another scent he didn’t dare to put a name to as screams filled the air.

He’d seen a single moment of it—the figures still in the cloud bursting into flame as it ignited around them—before he’d turned away from the ripple of heat from the biggest chemical reaction he’d ever witnessed in his life.

The screams grew louder, reaching a tonality that could only have been ripped out from the smallest filaments of a person’s throat.

Dejun let himself be pulled onward, eyes staying closed with increasing terror as he felt the heat become bolder against his face and the screams get louder despite dwindling. The smoke was disgusting,and the voices around him melded under the noise and boiling air.

“We have to keep moving.”

“Jesus christ, Dal.”

“Someone get Jungwoo. Keep his eyes closed. Renjun! Renjun, come.”

“We’re out in the open.”

“I couldn’t do it indoors—”

“You probably woke up the entire district.”

“You think the gunshots wouldn’t?”

“You can open your eyes now.”

The screams had petered out to sounds Dejun could no longer hear, and Ten’s voice was kind, his hands letting go of Dejun’s arm to let him rediscover his surroundings. Dejun stared at Ten instead and the dim black singe across one side of his face—nothing red. Just like passing your fingertip over a candle flame.

“Are they dead?” he murmured, sure of the answer but afraid of it.

Ten gave Dejun a considering look, searching between his eyes as he put his gloves back on now that the brawl was through. His knuckles were shiny, one split. “ _Someone_ was going to die. They stopped hesitating years ago.”

Dejun had never heard a death count of witches—just reports of ELE being found. For the first time, he wondered if by becoming a witch, he revoked his “human” card. If he died, would he ever make it into the news? Would his parents ever know?

Taeyong saying, “Ready? Do we have everyone?” centered them both in the moment, and Dejun saw beyond just Ten. They were in an alleyway, the walls and ground scorched and blushing black. The smoke was thinner, escaping easily up to the sky, but Dejun let out a frothy cough and dragged his neckline up. The cloth no longer smelled like Ten. 

The alleyway must have been the one the ELE come through, and the door Taeyong regarded must have been the one they left. Taeyong had both gloves off, having already tried the handle and finding it locked. “Johnny.”

“Got it.”

When Taeyong placed his hands on the metal, his fingers crumbled straight through the door. He swiped through it like the material was quark, the metal coming away in feeble handfuls of sand, and stepped through the destroyed gap. Dejun could see the tense line of his jaw as he peered into the dark. “Jungwoo?”

Dejun looked around for the hyung, saw him clinging to Taeil’s arm with his eyes so wide they looked like marbles. They flicked to the entrance, Taeyong one foot in, and jerked his head _no_.

“C-clear.”

Taeil reached up to card a hand through Jungwoo’s hair, mussing the black strands on the side of his head, and Taeyong pushed himself the rest of the way through. He held a hand out for Mark to lead him in, then everyone else followed into the narrow stairwell.

“Still clear,” Jungwoo gasped as they descended the steps, the hyungs pulling out their phones for light.

_“Split back up. Jae is with the Bait but we don’t have a location.”_ Kunhang’s voice came through Dejun’s ear and settled him in ways only hearing his best friend could. If it weren't that they were descending into a dingy labyrinth of a basement, it almost would have reminded him of a late-night phone call on one of his walks.

Ten spoke up, evidently hearing the same thing from Sicheng on his bluetooth line. “Ask him if he went right or left at least.” Ten, Kun, and Youngho had memorized the map, and the direction would at least give them a hint.

There was a pause.

_“Originally? Left,”_ Ten would hear and relay.

There was a pause as the members shuffled themselves in the narrow hallway, the split T just ahead. Dejun returned to Youngho’s side along with Mark, taking measured breaths to calm his heart. In the shadows and blue lights, everyone's eyes glittered and flashed in the restless hands of those who held their phone lights out. Taeyong’s gears were turning, dark eyes shifting between each group. “Jungwoo can’t come with us.”

Youngho flicked his hand. “Give him here. We’ll keep distance.”

Taeyong nodded and Taeil ruffled Jungwoo’s hair once before passing him over. He switched over with stiff steps, breaths so forced they were visible even as they remained utterly silent. “So you’ll take right, Johnny, but skim any danger. Just to cover our bases. Dal’s and my group will take left and split when we can,” Taeyong said.

Dejun only got a pat on the back as a warning, and then everyone was moving out.

* * *

They moved fast—Yuta and Taeyong’s units didn’t have anyone who could detect danger among them, so it was better to move through the halls quickly.

Taeyong led, his personal gun snug under his belt at the small of his back like a tumbled gemstone of danger. Yuta knew Taeyong felt differently, but these missions were more thrilling for him than frightening. The kid who might be frozen to be in this hell pit was destroyed by the same hands Yuta would see broken tonight if it was within his power.

He had his fears, but they had nothing to do with the people behind false righteousness, paid with money and oil and blood. They’d taken too much from him to earn his terror. He’d done his business being shaken back in the hull of the ship, haunted by injury rather than the glimmer of his former retainers. Yuta had seen years of his crew members getting hurt, Taeil with a dislocated jaw, Taeyong with his nose nearly shattered, a broken collarbone from Youngho, bullet holes, tears and clenched teeth. It would never get less painful to see his crew hurt, but the opportunity to make the other side pay along the way to their goals was too much of a drug.

He hooked an arm around Taeyong’s waist before they split at an intersection.

“Yuta—”

“Play safe,” Yuta said, and dared to unhook his mask to touch his lips to the bridge of Taeyong’s nose.

His startled smile was more than enough, visible in his eyes above his own mask.

That was all before they both turned away, Yuta just barely catching sight of Taeyong’s fingers fiddling with the fingertips of his gloves like a shy tic. 

Yuta hooked his face mask back over his ear and let himself smile as they went at a steady jog. “Hey, Haechan. This is going to sound bad,” he said to his earpiece, and Kun glanced in Yuta’s direction, signaling he was listening in. “But you should tell Jae to get the ELE coming for them.”

_“They’re vulnerable,”_ said Donghyuck, words pinched and cautious.

“So are we,” Yuta pointed out. He was straining to both listen around him and get his idea across. Multi-tasking wasn't his strong suit. “But if we know the ELE are heading there, we can intercept. It’s easier to find people who are running.” He huffed out the trapped oxygen in his chest from trying to talk and near-run all at once.He glanced at Kun, seeing him thinking and knowing the humor wasn’t lost on him. Kun’s chin jerked out a nod, which is all Yuta needed—a second opinion. “Run it past Doie. Quickly.”

_“Okay.”_ Donghyuck’s voice shook on the word, but he would do it, and Yuta had a good hunch it would happen.

There was the sound of a gun cocking up ahead.

“Fuck,” Taeil said, and ripped off his gloves.

* * *

The mask truly _peeled_ off the Bait’s face, and Jeno had to duck his mouth behind his hands to stop from retching.

Their face was a mass of swollen purples and yellows like a spoiled oil canvas, blue lips creviced and fissured with black, eyes crusted closed. Jeno couldn’t have picked out a single feature if he tried—it was a face of injury and blotches of discoloration, mottled by fluids and shine.

“Jesus,” Yoonoh said, and his voice was tripping on the edges of horror-turned-tears. Jeno had never seen Yoonoh cry, but he supposed this would be the time to do it, because what they had done to this person was inhuman. Then again, the ELE had never been humane.

The three of them stood there, just trying to breathe as the Bait puffed foul exhales. Carefully, Yoonoh reached to remove the bulky plugs in the Bait’s ears, the edges of their greasy hair sliding across his knuckles.

“Hey—” Yoonoh began, cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey there.”

With a guttural sound of pain, the Bait jerked their chains, neck tense in an effort to get away from Yoonoh’s voice. Fresh blood welled from a ring of pricks in the Bait’s neck, tiny winks of crimson spreading through damp sweat creasing through the lines of their throat. Yoonoh’s lips sealed in empathy and fury, the emotions there roiling similarly in Jeno’s stomach.

“I’ll search the ELE’s pockets,” Jeno choked out as Yoonoh rubbed his face with the one hand he had that wasn’t covered in his own blood. None of them could break the chains keeping the Bait rooted, so their best bet was a key hidden in the ELE’s coat pockets or Jeno swapping into the Bait’s position and breaking his thumbs. To have Donghyuck in their company would have been a godsend, but the blood was spilled and he wouldn't cry over it.

Jaemin still stood in the corner of the room, eyes closed, trembling in the cold as his fingers dripped onto the frigid tiles of the floor like little crimson coins. He had one hand wrapped around his injury to staunch the bleeding, but he’d kept the sight out of view, so Jeno couldn’t know to what extent the ELE had sliced his hand in half. It was silly to feel grateful it wasn’t the same hand he’d nearly shattered before, like the injuries ought to be balanced until both sides of Jaemin's body were tenuously held together by Sicheng's healing.

Jeno could feel himself slipping out of his own mind, but he’d rather be beside himself than within himself.

He was not gentle with the body of the ELE and did not allow himself to register if the person was still alive or not—did not trust himself with that information. It was while he was shoving his hands in the inner pockets of the jacket that Dongyoung spoke up again.

_“Search for a communication device, too, Jen.”_

Yoonoh looked up, catching eye-contact with Jeno. He took the knuckle he had bitten between his teeth out from his mouth to speak. “Why?” Yoonoh asked. It wasn’t like it was inherently a bad idea or that they shouldn’t have been doing that anyway, but just the tone of intent direction raised a red flag.

_“It’ll take too long for everyone to find you. Bring the ELE to you and the boys can follow.”_

Jeno’s hands froze against the warm ribs of the ELE’s body, processing that. Jaemin’s eyes were wide, but hardened by the second.

“Okay,” Jeno said, and Yoonoh didn’t stop him. “The Bait’s chained, though.”

_“I know.”_

He could only tilt his head in cautious acceptance and proceed. Without looking at their face, Jeno pulled the tiny wireless earpiece from the ELE’s ear and turned it around in his fingers. If he held it up to his own ear, there was a tinny, staticky mess blurting from it, which bode well for their little group. At least they knew they weren’t being listening in on the entire time. 

Jeno returned to the pocket that held their phone and unlocked it with the ELE’s bare thumb. He held it all out for Yoonoh, assuming he’d be able to know what to search for, and resumed rifling through their pockets. When he found nothing, he stripped the entire jacket off and used half his mind to listen to Yoonoh breathe through his nose, then tap at the phone’s screen.

He slipped his gloves off and held them in his mouth as he smoothed his palms over the jacket’s material, searching for anything strange.

Still no key. 

He hauled over the body and checked the back pockets and seams of their pants, their shirt, and finally their mouth, their tongue a bloody crimson. He only managed not to convulse at the intimacy by imagining he was prying the maw of some dog’s open. “No key,” he said just as the call Yoonoh had placed started to ring.

In the chair, the Bait was utterly still. Hardly breathing. Jeno truly considered swapping just to get them out of the metal chair. If the ELE came for them they’d have to prioritize protecting the Bait first and foremost, and that wasn't an ideal Jeno would budge on. The Bait came first.

The call picked up and Yoonoh’s jaw clenched. 

Yoonoh took one last breath. 

“Are you coming for us or what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rubs hands together* yikes haha
> 
> Thank you so much for the feedback last chapter. It just... it means a lot to me. I'm never going to lose inspiration for the things I write, but I really do want to know what you guys are thinking ;; ♡ I hope you're ready for what comes next!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)   
>  [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)   
>  [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	25. Cornered

_"Those who aim at great deeds must also suffer greatly."_ \- Plutarch

 

Youngho held Jungwoo's hand as they ran—he could manage it given Jungwoo wasn't taller than him (yet). He could be a rudder of sorts without saying much, Jungwoo pinching his fingers when they got too close to something especially bad, and they'd either double back or go a different direction.

Initially, he was worried for Mark and his physical condition. Whether he could jog along for so long without needing to pause, but he kept up easily. Youngho supposed that if there was a single boon from being a Bait and living through it, it would be an inherent ability to survive.

"Stop," Jungwoo murmured, and hugged so close to Youngho he could feel the cold heat of his anxiety. Youngho didn’t need a second command, collecting Mark and Dejun nearer to him, unsure of what he was stopping for but more than willing to do it.

Jungwoo pointed at the wall ahead of them that split to a branching T its walls a pasty grey and brick. "There's something beyond that."

Youngho's mind kicked into overdrive, but he still managed to ask, "What color?"

"Bright pink," Jungwoo said, and the hint of appreciation in his answer was worth the pause to ask the question.

“Any ideas?"

Jungwoo shook his head, which was understandable. Youngho wouldn't have a goddamn thought left to think either if his brain was a mass of color. He nodded to Mark and Dejun instead.

"ELE bay?" Dejun suggested. His nose was pink from the cold of this dingy network of hallways, cheeks flushed from the clip they’d been maintaining. He’d been keeping up fine, and Youngho didn’t mind the mild feeling of pride, even if he had hardly just placed a face to Dejun’s name. Withholding affection from the Sprouts was never Youngho’s strength—he’d been in the game too long.

“Tracker storage,” Mark said and shrugged to emphasize that despite this being his jail cell for who knew how long, he couldn’t possibly know a thing. For that, Youngho was grateful. He couldn’t imagine any justification for throwing Mark back into a hell pit he could recognize. It was a small consolation that Mark recognized nothing, especially given that fact relied on the root of his trauma.

Youngho bit his thumbnail, considering those two things and completely unsure himself, then Kunhang’s voice came clear over the earpiece.

_“Jae’s luring the ELE. Keep on the lookout to trail. They’ll lead you to their unit.”_

In the second or less that Youngho decoded the meaning of that, Jungwoo was tugging all of them into the hallway room to their left, grip iron strong. “It’s the ELE bay,” he confirmed, voice shaking but firm, and it was easy to forget how strong Jungwoo was. Not that he had to try too hard to corral them into the empty room. “The color got brighter as soon as Kunhang said that.” With care, Jungwoo re-approached the door after closing it to press his ear against its metal.

Dejun backed up against the wall nearest the door, and Mark grabbed Jungwoo’s offered phone, cupping his hand over the light to mask any obvious beams through the cracks of the door.

Calming his heart from the whiplash developments, Youngho investigated the tiny space they’d thrust themselves into. It seemed like a larger storage closet with shelves and boxes and a metal table taking up a good amount of the available room.

“They’re leaving,” Jungwoo said, so quiet as Youngho pulled out his own phone and crabbed his fingers over the light.

“When the colors are dimmer, let me know,” Youngho murmured, flashing the diffused light onto the metal shelves and peeking into the boxes. “Ah.” He grinned.

Gas masks.

* * *

Ten liked to joke that the ELE were storm troopers due to the sheer reality that they were such bad shots. For how many times Kun and the crew _had_ been successfully shot, the comparison didn’t seem entirely appropriate, but given the ratio of hits to misses, some credit was due for the joke.

Kun reckoned the real reason they missed so much wasn’t because they were bad shots, but because they were terrified.

The first ELE didn’t even get around to _shooting_ their gun before Taeil’s palms came together and the entire thing blew apart in their face. They gargled a yelp and fell back, lucky enough to be wearing a vest as shrapnel skittered like dry ice through the air and across the floor.

“Fuck you!” they screamed, but yowled as they jerked to cover their face when Taeil snapped his fingers and sparks popped like pellets in front of their eyes. 

Kun was already sliding ahead, hugging the left wall so he could move into the blindspot of the three ELE trying to gather their wits behind the first. The one scrambled away from him, then abruptly froze, locked into place as somewhere behind Taeil, Yuta added his Chaos to the mix. Kun lurched to tap the ELE’s shoulder, and they folded like punched dough.

He barely dodged the cudgel swung at his temple from the ELE immediately following, but hit the wall in the effort—he’d never be as good as Ten at hand-to-hand (no one would be, unmatched as he was on their crew), but his own lack of grace and speed was never as annoying as it was now.

Hissing as his shin took an aimed kick from that same ELE’s steel toe, he threw his elbow up and clipped their face, pushing his Chaos through his arm so sharply that they actually knocked back into a deadweight unconsciousness.

It was only then that he regained his sense of the area, though he had two more ELE closing in on him. He couldn’t afford the time it took, but he looked behind him as he backed away from the advances of a bodily compact agent. The rushing in his ears had done him damage, because there were five more ELE pinching the backside of the hallway and he had not heard them. Yuta and Taeil were sacrificing their attentions to the five rather than Kun’s two, now, and he had to shove down the alarm and fear, breathing through the threat that bubbled up to overtake him.

He got just that one glance in before he had to stumble away from the hilt of a gun being thrust at his head. The second agent closed in and swung a fist to his side. In the process of the blow, purely by accident, they kicked one of the ELE who was down, and Kun could see their eyes flicker open.

The one problem with his Chaos was that it merely put them to sleep—disturb them enough, and they would wake.

So even as the punch connected and he let a burst of Chaos indispose the one who’d aimed for his side, crumpling like an old plaster wall, he was back to two.

He heard a grunt of pain from Taeil, but he couldn’t look back anymore, side pinging throbs of warning through his abdomen. 

“You’re cornered,” said a voice, and his last thought before he threw himself in (heart racing, fear making his breath sting) was that they _weren’t_ cornered, damnit, because this was a goddamn hallway.

Kun knocked one more agent out before there was a sharp pain at his temple and he saw black.

* * *

Back on the ship, Jisung watched Donghyuck’s knuckles go white as he gripped the dining room table, his eyes staring so intently at the wall that it could have drilled through it any day. The room was aglow with the slow pulse of the Neo, steady and quiet as they clung to the voices of their crewmates who seemed so far from their hands. There hadn’t been a single moment of calm, anxiety bittering in their guts.

Donghyuck’s mouth was forming words without any sound, but Jisung could still read his lips.

_Please._

_Please._

_Please._

“Hyung?” Donghyuck asked into the little hooked microphone, his hand coming up to bring it closer to his lips, shaking. He was asking for any of the three hyungs on the other end—it didn’t matter which one.

His expression didn’t change into anything positive. It just twisted into further duress as the seconds passed, and Jisung had never seen Donghyuck so close to tears as he was in this moment. Not even being bedridden for days could pull a reaction like this from him.

“Hyung? Dal? Dandan? Y-yukkuri?” he tried again.

Jisung’s heart kicked his ribs like a bass drum pedal.

In the next second, Donghyuck’s face lost all color and he ripped the feed out of his ear, scrambling to switch off the connection as the room throbbed around them. On the other end of the table, Chenle caught Jisung’s eye, staring at Donghyuck as he stood up and grabbed the back of the chair for strength.

“Taeil’s team is compromised.” Donghyuck spoke loud enough for absolutely everyone in the room to hear—Jisung, Chenle, Dongyoung, Kunhang, Sicheng. Without moving, it felt like Jisung’s legs had given out from under him

Five seats away, Sicheng flinched like Donghyuck had jabbed him with a rod, gasping in a breath. Even as his eyes went wide and his spindly fingers gripped at his shirt, however, he relayed the words into his mic. He was sitting where Taeil had just been the night before, where he’d brushed his hair away from his eyes with his fingertips. Jisung always watched his mat hyung. Noted how he acted and created calm wherever he was. Wished he could be who he was sometimes.

Kun was the one who had communicated with the others and let Jisung stay on ship rather than deploy. He’d been the one to listen to Chenle. He was like the older brother Chenle couldn’t otherwise have.

And Yuta.

Jisung’s next breath rattled in his chest.

“What does it mean,” Jisung said, heart shaking, “that they’re compromised? Hyuck?”

Donghyuck shook his head, hands trembling so badly even gripping the chair couldn’t hide it. “The ELE picked up one of their earpieces. I—” Donghyuck aborted his next breath and pushed himself back away from the table and toward the deck door. His should blade thudded against the wall before he righted himself and scrabbled for the door knob. He tilted his head back to stave off tears that were much more from panic than anything else. “—need a moment.”

* * *

_“Dal’s team is compromised.”_

It took three steps for those words to register in Taeyong’s mind, but when they did, it hit so hard he forgot how to breathe.

“What?” he choked and almost staggered when his limbs locked up. Ten and Renjun had stopped as well, hearing straining almost visibly on their faces. Ten had gone so still not even a stiff breeze rattling through the halls would have budged him.

“K—Dandan?” Renjun demanded, looking back the way they had come.

_“The entire team.”_

Sicheng’s voice sounded choked, but still clear enough that there was no way they could mishear him.

Like a slap to the face, the bridge of Taeyong’s nose prickled where Yuta had kissed him, and for the briefest moment he felt entirely detached from his body. “Play safe,” Yuta had said. Play safe. His eyes had glittered in the low light and he’d had the nerve to say “play safe” then immediately get caught.

Against all odds, Taeyong sucked in a breath and tugged himself back to reality. His head was spinning and his heart had definitely stopped, but he couldn’t afford to drop to the ground and process all the possible implications. “Where do we need to be?”

_“I don’t know—I just. Let me talk to the other two.”_

Taeyong closed his eyes for just that moment, so he missed Ten reaching for them both, but he let himself being tugged in for the briefest but most bracing hug Ten could muster. He buried a kiss into Ten’s hair as a secret wish he could have given it to someone else.

_“Johnny says he’s got it. Go—go see if you can get. Them.”_

“Breathe, Winwin,” Ten whispered.

_“Don’t,”_ Sicheng wrung out. _“Please don’t.”_

“We’ll get them,” Ten said, firmer this time, and all three of them heard the shaky exhale Sicheng gave over the line, then the pitch silence of him muting the mic.

“Fuck,” Renjun breathed, and apparently neither he nor Ten had the heart to tell him to watch his language. Not when they too wanted to express the same. Instead, they just forced themselves to move. Faster than before, just short of a sprint. “They wouldn’t kill them, right?” he asked, but it was so small in voice that it wouldn’t have carried even if he’d tried to shout, probably.

Taeyong forced himself to answer. “It depends on what they want to do with all of us.” They hadn’t killed Yuta the first time, but Taeyong would personally rather die than see him locked in a straightjacket again. But then again, he couldn’t be sure if the alternative was in his power.

At the end of the day, he was the captain he never asked to be, and he had _everyone_ under his protection. If this was his warning that not a single one of them would make it out, he could not and would not hesitate to leave even Yuta behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to put in the notes I just know you guys are going to be stressed out ahhh  
> Please understand Taeyong, and if you are seriously concerned, please know I would have tagged major character death if I ever even remotely suspected it might be a possibility. No one major will be dying in this fic.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented last chapter ;; It's difficult for me to tell if everyone's enjoying or not, even with the statistics up in one browser tab. If you have thoughts, questions, or just some support, I would love to hear from you ♡ ♡ ♡ 
> 
> If any of you are waiting on BAS as well, I'll hopefully get the next chapter up soon!! ^^
> 
>  
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)  
> [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)  
> [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	26. Tyger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: stressful chapter ahead ;;

** (Memory **

_"Nay ta ôm niềm uất hận ngàn thâu_

_Ghét những cảnh không đời nào thay đổi,_

_Những cảnh sửa sang tầm thường, giả dối:_

_Hoa chăm, cỏ xén, lối phẳng, cây trồng;_

_Dải nước đen giả suối chẳng thông dòng"_

\- Thế Lữ

 

At four in the morning, the rain dribbled down the glass of his bedroom window, just gleaming at the edges from the street lamps outside. Taeil stared at it all collect at the seams that split the pane into fours, then well over like the lower lid of a crying eye.

* * *

He moved back in with his mother after the military, planning to work and save up for university. He was a shoe-in for his favored school, but affording it was a different matter.

He reacquainted himself within the first week, tugging on his new shoes and breaking them in against the streets he hadn’t walked in so long.

In the old neighborhoods of home, his lungs stung from what was missing. Even with blue trim or red doors or temporary-resident plants, every building was gray. Their faces slicked by in plaster and concrete, blending into the washed-out sidewalks and black streets.

_Fire hazard, a risk to the pipes, blocks the sunlight, a rat-line, what if it fell._

Somewhere between the refurbished and neatly-trimmed apartments whispered the ghosts of trees, their old bark and leaves no longer able to shed kisses to the ground. The gaps between buildings lacked the appendages to scratch their phantom limbs, echoing like a pvc throat as a pebble skidded between garbage cans.

A remodeled building, covered before in curls and sheets of ivy that had flowered in shy purple blooms, glittered pristine like a set of false teeth. Its whitewash glared proudly in the sun.

Taeil pushed himself all the way until the end of his neighborhood, where a copse the kids used to call the forest whispered nothing more than a memory. There sat a recreational building, preening and aglitter.

He felt sick in a way that swirled within his chest in tight, confused circles. He’d never loved the trees, the ivy, the dandelions-in-the-cracks before. Not actively. Not wildly.

He loved them now, and he choked on the swirls of betrayal in his chest.

* * *

The rain collected yellow dust on its gritty way down the panes, drooling over the seams like a swollen eye. Outside, children played with clear umbrellas, charmed by the gray puddles among gray buildings trying to flaunt color they’d lost.

He felt that if he simply pressed the wall beside him with his palm, it would crumple like paper and bring the whole building down with a simple death rattle. Everything inside would remain untouched because the building was empty anyway.

His mother sang in the kitchen, coughing on a caught breath. She continued to sing beyond it about lilies and ashes.

The rain muddied and drooled, and Taeil clawed at his desk, asking himself helplessly if he was okay.

** End.) **

 

 

_"We ought not to treat living creatures like shoes or household belongings, which when worn with use we throw away."_ \- Plutarch

 

“Who’s coming?”

_“Johnny’s unit.”_

Jaemin thought through the crew in that bunch from memory: Mark, Dejun, and Youngho of course. Youngho would be able to break the Bait out.

Jaemin’s hand sang with pain now that it had existed for more than a minute through his shock. He could only focus if he didn’t look at it. He wasn’t sure how to process the damage if it was as bad as it felt—his palm was screaming, but it was difficult to feel some of his fingers, and that was objectively terrifying, so he just tried to ignore it. There wasn’t time or space to have a panic attack in the corner of the room against the frozen floor.

The cold of the room didn’t make any immediate sense except to exacerbate the Bait’s misery and slow them down. To make it harder to think and feel.

Fury didn’t mix well with pain, and Jaemin was shaking so badly he almost couldn’t hear Yoonoh planning.

“There’s only one door, so unless they blow down a wall, we’ve got a point to focus on. The trim is made of brick and it’s high, so we’d do best crouched below it so if they shoot through the wall, they won’t hit anything.”

“What about the Bait?” Jeno said, gesturing to the head and shoulders that cleared the estimated height of the brick.

Yoonoh rubbed his pants with his bare hand, scratching off the dried blood of the officer he’d downed. The ELE hadn’t moved at all—they needed to check the body sometime for life and therefore its potential threat, but the adrenaline was still fresh and Jaemin didn’t want to come even inches near that body.

“We can get them off the chair and onto the ground,” Yoonoh said, tracing the sloped chains securing the Bait with his eyes. “You can’t swap, Jen?”

“I _could_ ,” Jeno said.

“But it might cut his hands off,” Jaemin added, hurried before either of them could truly consider it. 

“And if it worked, I’d have to break my thumbs anyway,” Jeno said, and the smile and sigh of exasperation from Yoonoh was nothing short of humor—the limitations of all their Chaos were well-traced, and Yoonoh had his own.

Jeno was safest swapping with unrestricted bodies—no addendum, no restraints. If something external to a singular body encroached upon Jeno’s target, he ran a severe risk in the execution of his Chaos. They’d figured it out when he’d swapped with Renjun to get him out of Donghyuck’s headlock and nearly had his windpipe crushed. It had been beyond frightening, the bruise he had sported ugly and wide.

“Coming.”

Jaemin whipped to face the Bait so fast he strained his neck. Their voice had sounded like a groan, dying on its way of their throat but just managing to whisk out in a string of pain.

“Coming,” the Bait repeated just short of a whine.

Yoonoh lurched to press his ear to the door and mouthed a swear, almost immediately backing up again to approach the Bait. “I need to get you out of that chair. It might hurt. I’m so sorry.”

The only response was a tiny, strained whine, and then a cry as Yoonoh wrapped his arms around their waist and pulled them off the metal chair. “Jaemin—” Yoonoh said, “—shield.”

Jeno dropped to a crouch to flank the one side of the door while Jaemin slid to the other side, outstretching his uninjured hand to organize pressured layer upon layer of Chaos just three feet from the door. He pushed it out of himself, smelling the iodine of threatening burnout unfurl from himself like cold sweat. 

The shield was thick enough to give a weak haze of purple, swirling over itself in ripples. He knew that if he kept going, he could reach a pretty lilac smoke of solid energy, but he didn’t have enough left of himself to do it. And not enough time, either.

The door burst open with a bang, Jeno just out of its swinging reach, and Jaemin curled in on himself as the gunfire started, feeling each hit like pellets against his chest and back as it hit his barrier, ears ringing.

He could feel Yoonoh’s wave of Chaos shudder past his own shield, smelling like pure dust and age. It passed through the bodies attempting to spill through the door, clogging up their senses, blinding them or turning them suddenly, whiningly deaf.

There were so many ELE coming in, teetering like chess pieces cut in half but still aiming their guns. Jaemin enfolded himself in the iodine of his Chaos, eyes forced open to watch as Jeno slid in to incapacitate some seven officers. Yoonoh looked pale, unable to sustain so much of his Chaos for so long, and the air was clotted with not only the Bait’s fear anymore, but their own.

Bullets ripped through the walls outside them, Yoonoh crouching in front of the Bait so they were the very last thing to possibly be hit. Yoonoh fed his Chaos through the eyes and ears of the ELE in steady streams even as his hands grew shaky. 

_“Hang in there,”_ said Dongyoung, and Jaemin watched an agent crumple with their hands around their neck, crushed from a well-aimed punch from Jeno. Jeno was slipping, though, breath heaving hard enough that it showed up in the air like his ghost was leaving him. Sweat stained his face and jaw as the agents shook themselves out and swung at him. He gave his attention back, eyes bright but fatigue showing.

It was terrifying to have Jeno right in front of him, knotted into bodies that weren’t his, because there was absolutely no way for Jaemin to protect him. He could only stay out of the way and make sure his shield didn’t shatter for Yoonoh and the Bait’s sake.

Jaemin could hardly breathe through the Chaos, but he screamed anyway when Jeno stumbled and took the hilt of a gun to his stomach. The next hit slammed Jeno to the ground, and Jaemin tried desperately to fling out a shield between the legs of the agents.

_“Hang in there, guys!”_ Dongyoung almost yelled through the feed. Like a plea. A prayer.

* * *

It wasn’t nearly as difficult as it could have been to find Taeil’s group because Chaos, when used enough, felt almost physical to Witches. It pushed against them, gave off an aroma unique to the individual. Together, Yuta, Kun, and Taeil smelled like wildfire and rust, their Chaos creeping through the halls like tendrils of fog in nearly imperceptible lilac swirls.

They had never figured out whether non-witches could sense these things—their interaction with regular people was limited and restricted for good reason.

The traces Taeil’s team gave off weren’t cloying, which was notable to Ten. To him, it meant that they’d been cut off somehow before they could waste themselves through complete burnout. Even when they reached the corner closest to the climax of their presence, the buildup wasn’t enough to knock any of them out.

The three of them slid to the closest wall before the corner, forcing their breath to steady into silence, and Taeyong gently nudged the small of Renjun’s back. They held eye contact for a deadening second, and Ten listened to the clunky sounds in the hallway they couldn’t see.

Renjun took one deep breath, shoulders rising a millimeter, and stepped out into the open by just one step. Enough to see.

There was a tiny ripple of clean seawater smell mixed with smoke to signal Renjun activating his Chaos, though he didn’t activate against them. They just watched his body freeze, breath barely touching his chest, and listened.

“Don’t move!” someone yelled. “Don’t move and we won’t shoot!”

Taeyong was holding his breath, eyes narrowed as if he could what the ELE were seeing if he didn’t move an inch. Quietly, he slid out his gun and cocked it in tandem with the sound of an ELE’s steps.

“Okay. Okay. Very good. Hands up. Are you alone?”

Ten knew from practice that Renjun’s Chaos form couldn’t make sound, though the target often filled in the gaps anyway. The mind was a strange, desperate creature.

He could imagine Renjun nodding, silent, a ghost of the young body that stood in front of Taeyong and Ten, ice cold and paralyzed without its soul.

When the agent came into their vision, handcuffs out for the hallucination, Taeyong reacted before Ten could so much as breathe.

The gunshot rang harsh in Ten’s ears and he was too startled to see the bullet rip through the officer’s throat. He didn’t have to register it after realizing it, either, overtaking Taeyong as he stepped around Renjun and cocked his gun again.

Kun was against the wall, seemingly unconscious, face bloodied from the temple down. Taeil, on the ground and too difficult to see. Yuta, limp body held up, but not in danger, the one officer with the member in his grip pointing their gun at Taeyong instead. Five ELE total.

Taeyong’s fingers snapping was almost as loud as the gunshot, and Ten watched as Yuta was thrown to the side like a rag doll. Ten could feel his limbs ache as the Chaos rippled through them, flinging himself forward to meet the roar of five ELE. Two were distracted by Renjun no doubt, but the odds were still wildly out of their favor.

He could feel an agent’s jaw unhook as he stole their momentum and nailed them in the face, falling back to avoid a kick to his groin. The eyes of the officers were wild, narrowed in on him like the foaming maws of wolves. He didn’t bother to mirror for his next strike, simply dodging in close and shoving his knee into the soft flesh of the closest’s stomach.

His Chaos relied entirely on his combat skills and ability to predict movements. As his opponent moved to attack, he would match the motion, relaxed, and at the last possible moment, swap potentials with them. Their muscles would slacken as his would tighten, and the whiplash could be rough, but so long as he was smart, he’d always have the advantage.

Taeyong’s gun fired and the farthest agent staggered back, hand jumping to their shoulder, then falling completely as another shot immediately followed and they swung back and crumpled with a hole through their face.

Taeyong’s burnout smelled like ripe gasoline and left him an emotional husk, consequently making him care less and less whether the next person lived or not. He bloomed an uncaring chill, Chaos wafting in tides and frazzling the ELE’s focus so they could hardly see Ten through the blood in their brains, let alone attempt to hit him.

Ten had heard The Lunar Brig’s Haseul call Taeyong the Wrath’s Captain (just as she was Upheaval’s Devil), and it was fitting. His Chaos focused in on emotions and shattered whatever his target’s control on it was. Never, however, had Ten seen Taeyong release it all at once and so severely. The air swarmed with his effects like wasps, and it caught even Ten, adrenaline crackling through him as he elbowed the third officer in the face and felt their nose shatter.

The fourth officer got a bullet to the stomach, and the gurgling cries from them would ring through Ten’s blood for days—he knew it. He could feel himself getting confused, emotions roiling and bending under the pressure of his own captain’s Chaos, but he couldn’t ask him to stop. Not until the last one was down.

He knocked the fifth and last agent out before Taeyong had the chance to kill them and gasped on the fetid air, knuckles numb and throbbing, split very nearly to the bone.

Everything felt mottled and wild, and he found the nearest wall to sag against. His head cleared slowly, forehead pressed to the cold plaster with his hands over his ears to block out the desperate gagging, gasping, whines of pain.

_“Report.”_

“Yukkuri alive,” Taeyong said, and his voice was frigid and clear. 

“Dandan alive,” Renjun said next, sounding clogged.

Ten was starting to smell blood.

“Dal—”

_“Please.”_

The click of Renjun’s throat was loud. “Alive,” he said. “But his hands—”

Sicheng’s breath was sharp through the connection. _“I don’t care. Just get him home.”_ His sound dropped off, muted to signal that the conversation was over.

Acid filled Ten’s body, trickling from his mind down in waves of burnout and exhaustion. He could hear Renjun stumbling, trying to relearn his limbs and heartbeat.

“Are you okay, hyung?” Renjun asked Taeyong. Ten closed his eyes.

“Yup,” Taeyong said, voice carrying through its emptiness, hollow.

Ten’s own cloying bleach smell burned through the air, mixing with smoke, fire, rust, gasoline.

They had to get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem excerpt translated:  
> "I smother my deep perpetual anger   
> Hating the things that never ever change,   
> The spaces that were deceitfully built,   
> With tended blooms, mown grass, straight paths, grown trees,   
> A dark trickle that passed as forest streams"
> 
> I didn't realize how rough this chapter was until I finished it. My apologies, everyone, but I hope you enjoy it to a degree nonetheless. Please let me know what you think—I really appreciate seeing your perspectives ♡ It means a lot to me whenever any of you take the time to comment ;; Thank you so much.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)   
>  [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)   
>  [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	27. It's Dangerous to Go Alone

_"The wings of the moths catch the sunlight / and burn / so brightly."_ \- Mary Oliver

 

“How are we lookin’?” Youngho gasped, gas mask on as they clung to the tail traces of the ELE dispatch. His voice sounded foggy that way, and the mask felt clunky on Jungwoo’s face like a large toy beetle. They wore them, though, with the odds it would make the ELE doubt for even a minute, and if they’d let gas loose in the hallways, they’d survive it.

_“Dal’s team alive. Winwin’s taking a break so Haechan took over his bluetooth.”_

Jungwoo’s stomach squeezed—Sicheng wouldn’t have done that if something hadn’t gone especially wrong. Granted, Taeil’s team being compromised was the worst case scenario, but he would have stayed online if his boy was okay.

He was past his own anxieties at this point. The world was awash with color, and Jungwoo just kept himself at a perpetual squint, breathing in the acrid but tasteless fumes of his numbed fears. 

“Jae’s team?”

_“Hanging in there. You have a plan?”_ Kunhang had kept his voice steady throughout, and Jungwoo could acknowledge him for keeping his head. Being on the line was both harder and easier in a lot of ways—Jungwoo would be losing it either way. But his job wasn’t to stay calm, because even in the midst of a panic attack he could hear the loudest explosion of color.

This was better, though. He was hardly aware of his body, only distantly acknowledging the sound of their shoes on the hallway floor.

“Kinda.”

_“Jwitol’s telling me to ask how burnt out you are.”_

“I’m fine, and the others haven’t used anything yet.”

_“Zeus?”_

Jungwoo inhaled and snapped a portion of himself back into existence. “Dissociating.” He didn’t like how his own voice sounded, but he had the least amount of energy he’d ever had to care.

_“Fair enough.”_

Just behind them, Dejun huffed a breathless laugh, and Mark remained a silent shadow.

The colors swelled, the predominant one a cloud of auburn and Jungwoo snapped his fingers twice to signal it. Just as they discussed, he slowed and let them overtake him, only keeping pace in order to keep sight of the swell of black bodies.

The hallway preceding the door was clogged with officers, all positioned in some way to aggress. “Fourteen,” Jungwoo counted for Kunhang. Fourteen spears of rusted blood-red ELE agents, swallowing over the cool blue of his members. Dejun planted his feet in the hallway, several feet from where Youngho and Mark ducked in, and the tension in Mark’s shoulders was obscene even as Youngho’s body folded into a command over grace. “Three wear masks, all have guns. No gas. Air’s clear.”

From inside the room he couldn’t see, the door open like a slack tongue, someone screamed so acutely a tremor trickled through Jungwoo’s body. The voice spun off the walls and settled into him as Jaemin’s, and all the colors around him seized up, then swirled angrily as he tried to calm his breath from within a bottleneck of distance.

Furious but detached, he watched as a body was dragged through the maw of the room even as the bodies of the ELE rippled with the nausea of Yoonoh’s tell-tale Chaos. It smelled vividly, gaggingly of an ancient house crumbling in its own decay.

Guns were disintegrating in the grips of the ELE, but they were quick to use their hands, swinging even as they go their senses and muscles messed with.

“Jen’s on the ground,” he recognized belatedly.

One of the ELE went for Dejun, then staggered, body pivoting in confusion as Dejun tensed, not moving an inch, refusing to even as Chaos bloomed around him in tufts of grey. The ELE stumbled to reach the nearest wall and felt along it, blind as their fellows tried to keep their wits and corner Youngho.

“Four down. One incapacitated.”

He flinched as one of the remaining guns fired and a lick of flame the color of flowering mustard burst from Youngho’s bicep.

“Five down. One still incapacitated. Johnny nicked.”

Mark kneed one of the officers between the legs, chest heaving, then wrenched off his mask to bring it down on the back of their neck when they buckled. Like sand under a wave, they caved into the floor.

“Six down.”

The one ELE was slowly crawling closer to Dejun, hand sweeping out from the wall, and Dejun flinched but otherwise remained still.

“Jen’s up.” Blood leaked from the boy’s lips, nose busted and skin washed out with sweat and burnout, but he now stood where one of the agents had been before—swapping with them just as they swung at Youngho’s turned head. Even as Jeno swayed on his feet, he lurched to the agent now on the ground he’d lain on and drove his heel down on their face.

“Eight down. Air’s getting thick.” Carefully, Jungwoo moved forward toward the ELE getting closer and closer to Dejun’s ankle.

From what little he’d heard, Dejun could swap senses with others, and from the look of it, he’d swapped with at least three officers—this one, the one who shook their head every five seconds, and the one that had retreated down the other end of the hallway and was smacking themselves in the face. Dejun’s expression was scrunched in something of long-suffering and reserved fear, but the officer couldn’t see Jungwoo coming. Only Dejun could.

Jungwoo didn’t expect how it would feel to kick someone’s face in. Something crunched, and the officer cried out and fell with their hands crawling for their face. Lemon yellow pooled from their pores, and if Jungwoo were more present he would have gagged. Instead, he kicked them again and retreated, watching Dejun blink his eyes open, breath sagging out of his chest.

“Ten down. The number not the person. Jae’s out of the room.”

Yoonoh looked the worst Jungwoo had ever seen him, shaking like a leaf and leaning against the doorway as Chaos came off him in dusty ripples. The remaining four shuddered, now closer to his influence, jerking strangely like a glitches simulation.

From there, the rest of the ELE collapsed one by one, and his crew collapsed in a different way. Youngho’s blown-out electric socket smell fizzled through the air, and there was a new mix of other burnout smells Jungwoo struggled to place in the melting pot of everything else. Sweat, blood, dust.

Yoonoh was gagging as he staggered out of the doorway and away from the bodies, eyes clouded and skin a greenish tint.

“Jae, Jen, Johnny, Mark, Xiaojun alive,” Jungwoo sighed, the air like soggy pudding in his throat and lungs. He then approached to pick his way through the bodies, ignoring how Youngho placed a few more kicks against anyone twitching too much.

When he peered into the room, Jaemin was sitting with a weak purple haze in front of him and what could only be the Bait behind him. The only ELE properly in the room was crumpled on the ground like a wasted paper bag.

“We’re good, Nana,” Jungwoo told him, and when the shield shattered, so did Jaemin. He bent over himself, face in his hands, and hauled in breath after breath to keep from hyperventilating.

The Bait was the color of a deep, injured purple, and as Jungwoo smoothed a hand down the shaking muscles of Jaemin’s back, he searched the swollen and mottled face for anything human left. All the soul was there, but the ELE truly did their best to forget witches were just kids most of the time. The figure reeked even from a foot and a half away.

“Nana’s safe. Bait is secured.”

_“Keep watch, Xiaojun. You gotta get yourselves out.”_

Jungwoo couldn’t hear or see the reply, but he gathered Jaemin gently, pulling him up to his feet. “Don’t crash just yet. We need to go.”

Jaemin, cold and smelling of stinging iodine, pressed himself to Jungwoo’s chest and nodded. When Jungwoo pressed a kiss to the top of his head, Jaemin gave one last inhale and pushed himself away. He looked sick, bloodied hand pressed to his stomach, but alive. “Johnny needs to take care of these chains.”

As if summoned, Youngho sunk against the doorway, fingertips drifting down the cold metal. “I got it,” he said, voice rough from exhaustion, and came forward into the chilled room with his peculiar burnt-electric smell. “God, they make me sick.”

With a weak waft of Chaos and burnout, the chains around the Bait’s wrists broke and clattered when they hit the ground. The Bait still didn’t move, but Youngho approached gently. “Hey, buddy. Can I touch you? We’re going to get you out of here, but I think I should carry you.” Youngho’s eyes searched their swollen face and crusted-closed eyes.

There was the sound of Yoonoh and Jeno talking in the hall as a breath or two passed, the Bait unresponsive. Then, finally, a creak of a sound pressed past their lips. “Please,” they gasped, nothing more than a raspy, raw creak, and Youngho’s expression crumpled in distress.

“It’s gonna hurt, buddy, but I’ll do my best. Please don’t hurt me,” he said, voice near a throaty croak of emotion. He lowered himself to the Bait’s level and very slowly curled his arm around their back first, shoulder to their stomach.

The Bait wheezed and collapsed over Youngho’s shoulder with a cry as he pushed and lifted.

“God,” Youngho said, voice strained. “God, I’m so sorry. I’ve got you.”

Some of the tension brushed out of Jungwoo’s lungs as he watched, even as the Bait wheezed a sob of pain.

He relaxed too soon.

A burst of pulpy brown shattered in his periphery near the door as gunfire burst, the single ELE crumpled to the floor not as crumpled as he had thought, and he felt himself get hit and swing like a broken revolving door.

Pain cracked through him, and a yell of fury from Youngho was his last clear perception as every color crashed and screamed, as blood bubbled from his right side somewhere. His leg gave out, and he crashed with his colors.

* * *

“I can’t find Chenle and Sicheng,” Jisung gasped, hanging into the dining room from the doorway, and Dongyoung sat up ramrod straight. Kunhang aborted a report, the words dying on his lips.

_“What?”_ he asked, voice cracking on the syllable. He scrambled for his phone, and Donghyuck, who had come back some three minutes after leaving initially, jumped to his feet with his mouth parted and pushed past Jisung for the deck.

“I think they portaled there,” Jisung said, and his heart was beating so high in his chest it was nearly in his throat. There was no reason for the two of them to stray into the more private crevices of the ship—Sicheng would have known he’d be given privacy. When Jisung went to check, though, after Chenle had ducked himself through the door, they’d been absolutely nowhere.

“Oh my god,” Dongyoung said, and gripped his phone so hard his knuckles went white. _“Fuck_ they don’t have a connection to us. We won’t be able to know a damn thing.” With a furious flick of his hand, he pressed the bluetooth off mute. “Sicheng and Chenle dispatched without review or lines. Watch out for them.”

Jisung couldn’t imagine the response, but fell into Donghyuck’s abandoned seat to relay the same thing to Taeyong’s team simultaneous to Kunhang repeating the message.

_“We’re almost back at the entrance. Will keep you posted.”_ Taeyong sounded frigid, but tired, voice weak around the edges in the breathless exertion of pushing far past his limit. _“Dandan’s come to, by the way, but we’re hoping Dal stays under.”_

“Yukkuri?” Jisung asked.

_“Out.”_ If possible, Taeyong’s voice strung out further, edging into its shattering point. _“Will Dongz be ready to open the gate?”_

Jisung dug his nails into the wood of the table and turned to Dongyoung, who had his face in his hands and wasn’t moving except to breathe. “Are you ready to open the gate?”

Dongyoung made a noise, then breathed in and straightened out, pushing himself out of the chair. “Tell him we’ll be on deck.”

Swallowing, Jisung relayed and Taeyong approved before becoming little more than another breath in his ear. He trailed after Dongyoung to the deck, Kunhang following, and they swallowed the brisk shore air. Donghyuck was at the balusters, then turned when they approached, a fresh flush of having run the girth of the ship on his skin.

“I’m going down to meet them,” he said. “I won’t budge. I promise.”

Dongyoung nodded and leaned heavily into the wooden edge as Donghyuck skidded down the gangplank, feet bare on the wood, then sand. Dongyoung lowered his mouth into his hands and breathed into his fingers, eyes fluttering closed.

“So far everyone’s alive, right?” he asked aloud, not so much as touching his bluetooth, so it must have been a question to Jisung and Kunhang both.

“So far,” Kunhang said (the same as if a choked-out soul might say, "not yet") when Jisung said, “Yes.”

Jisung looked away when tears welled over Dongyoung’s fingertips, but Dongyoung's throaty plea made it out. “Remind me to never let them go without me again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue a grimace emoji.
> 
> Hang in there ♡ I'm too exhausted to leave a proper author's note (I'm so sorry—I hope this chapter is okay...), but know I appreciate and love every one of you guys who are reading and following along. Thank you for letting me know your thoughts. Until next week ♡ ♡ ♡ 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)   
>  [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)   
>  [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	28. Shattered Lanterns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (especially the first scene) might be pretty gruesome, so be warned, and I would strongly discourage any Americans from eating Thanksgiving leftovers during the first portion.

_"I am tired of_   
_all these beasts and brutes_   
_I seek_   
_a true human"_

\- Rumi in Divani Shams Ghazal #441  


 

Watching carnage from afar was a strange thing, but walking among it was something else entirely. The boy missed the clap but saw the burning, the gray smoke coming off in a haze and rising above smoldering bodies. The sounds were indescribable and horrific, wheezing, singing, sobbing a rattle of last breaths.

He watched the pirates drag themselves through the disaster they’d struck in retaliation, some with hands over their ears, holding hands, closed eyes. They disappeared in the alleyway, and the boy had no knowledge of what their purpose was.

He knew, now, their potential on top of his own.

It didn’t smell like death—it smelled worse and wrong like someone had set trash on fire and forgot a colony of flesh-eating roaches resided among it.

The boy gagged at first, retching onto the street with spittle and near-bile. Some of the buildings were scorched, but otherwise untouched. Brick a little singed, weeds within pavement cracks sent up tiny whispers of carbon like S.O.S. signals gone wrong.

After the gagging stopped, the boy ventured into the haze where the bodies groaned and died, black, melted, welted, shiny, still smoldering. He could hear pain in the tiny sounds still alive, and he crouched near a long body gone cramped in agony.

He could comprehend nothing from the lips behind the melted mask, and the humanity was lost on him. The skin that was showing didn’t look like flesh. It looked like spoiled cranberries spun with sweating sugar, still dripping.

In films and novels, he had seen plenty of mercy killings, and he knew death was available at the behest of his fingertips and the flowers of Chaos that bloomed in the core of his stomach. Likewise, it was clear to him, now, that moralities could only be so ambiguous as the threat of the moment.

Witches had done damage to kill because they, too, were at risk of the same fate. Black and white—stark were the options. It was only now, in the aftermath, that perhaps the options were as gray as the smoke surrounding him.

“I can only kill you,” he murmured as the stench of burning skin sunk down his esophagus. He thought he was less selfless than that, though. It would be easier to turn away and let the people dying continue to do so slowly and out of his sight. It would be harder to kill, in this moment, though he thought he could have done it with a gun to his throat.

He did already, probably.

Crusted with blood and filth and aching, the boy lowered himself to a sit on the ground surrounded by figures either fighting or surrendered, and wondered whether he was taking this only as well as he was because it no longer felt real. Even as pain took him out of considering anything a dream.

Down the street he gazed along, he saw a door open—so far away it was the size of one section of his thumb. A pale face peeked out, then slipped right back in like the flick of a nervous tongue.

The body next to him groaned. His eyes stung from the fire. For both reasons, he closed his eyes.

He couldn’t go after the group—not so far behind and so vulnerable. He didn’t know what they were doing or what he himself was doing, so he sat on the hot earth and resonated with the crippled pain these mouths spewed between bloodied teeth.

When there was a crackle and soft breath of a portal opening, the boy opened his eyes. The sky had wandered past twilight, and if it weren’t for the streetlights, he would have never seen the two people slide out of the purple-tinted blur.

They approached, then froze, and a light swung up and to him like a pinpointed sniping laser.

“Hands up,” said a dark voice, and the boy raised his hands slowly, head tipping into demolished clarity after breathing in smoke and chemicals. He coughed out his next breath. “Who are you? Is that aschool uniform? Jesus christ.”

The boy’s attempt at standing was wobbly at best, but he was caught by someone his height whose skin was cold and didn’t smell like a dumpster fire.

“Are you a witch?” he asked into soft black hair.

“Yes,” said a voice higher than the one before, right through the chest of the one holding the boy up. “Are you?”

“Yes,” said the boy.

Very distantly, he could hear sirens.

* * *

Chenle could not describe how this boy he caught felt under his fingertips and smelled to his nose, but it was like embracing something that crystalized under an old refrigerator. Then again, everything felt and smelled disgusting about the world in that moment, and the smoke clung to his skin and black clothes almost immediately in a film of detritus and ruin.

He wanted to hurl, but he hardly thought that would alleviate the environment.

Carefully, he led the boy back to Sicheng, who was gripping his phone with white knuckles, but beckoned him to continue toward the alleyway with a flick of his wrist, shoulders stiff.

The sirens were starting like wails of despair, far enough away to sound like a ghost in his ears.

“We have to get them out fast,” said Sicheng, and shone a light into the hole in the door that served nothing but a stale waft of air. He turned to the boy who was walking within Chenle’s grip for support alone and said, “I can’t ask you questions but if you’re not a witch and end up backstabbing either of us I’ll shoot you point blank.”

The boy laughed something shaky, and Chenle let him lean into the wall instead. “I’ll help, if I can,” said the boy, hands shaking as he opened his palms up to the black-blank sky. “I need touch. I could have already killed this one if—” His voice faded like a flickering light, weakening until he gasped in a breath and sank further into the wall. “—I’d wanted.”

Chenle’s throat closed, the boy indicating him with his words, but he allowed the criticism of his naïveté. Sicheng had told him not to move, but he’d caught the boy anyway.

Sicheng grimaced, chest rising with the swell of sirens. “Go, Lele,” he said, voice sharp in its deep tone, and Chenle ducked into the destroyed gap with his phone out and shining.

The most offensive damage Sicheng could do relied on prolonged contact, so like Taeyong, he had a gun and intended to stay by the back entrance (now with sudden, only vaguely trustworthy company). Chenle would be venturing down the stairs and hallway and no further. Not unless any decision from there was well-informed. The boundaries for “well-informed” were unclear to him, but he believed they would be so up until the moment he might have to make any decisions.

He crabbed his hand over the light to shroud it and went down the stairwell, heartbeat a frightened rabbit at the back of his tongue. Chenle tried to compare his fear to climbing the ropes on the Neo—it was dangerous, but familiar. This was, so far, the only mission he’d been on, regardless of the majority consensual vote, and so his pulse was throbbing. But these were just like the ropes.

_Breathe._

The air got colder as he continued, and he could feel it against his cheeks. When he finally reached the bottom, all was quiet.

He did not trust himself to go either left or right, so he breathed and flashed his light up the stairwell, slipping his thumb over the light twice to signal safety. Sicheng returned the courtesy, and Chenle hugged the wall.

_Breathe._

He couldn’t hear the sirens from where he was, now, but he imagined them getting louder, and he had to hold his breath for seven seconds before he even let himself try to be normal again.

“Please,” he whispered to the bleak, washed-out colors of the dim hallways. He strained his ears, rubbed the skin of his neck.

_Breathe._

Footsteps.

He flashed his light up the stairwell and blinked it thrice.

The courtesy was returned.

Chenle swallowed.

_Please_.

A lick of a voice, and Chenle almost collapsed with relief when he thought he could hear Taeyong’s. It came from the left, and he trailed his fingertips along the plaster half of the wall as he took steps along the hallway.

He took five before a gun cocked at the end, and he hiccuped in fear.

“Hyung,” he squeaked, the pale black-and-skin outline of his captain just past the corner swimming in his relieved vision.

The exhale he heard from Taeyong was enormous. “Lele, you’re lucky I literally can’t manage to be mad right now,” Taeyong said, and Chenle had never in his life heard Taeyong’s voice so flat and low. The shiver it drew from him was entirely involuntary. “Come help me.”

Chenle rushed to the end of the corridor to grab Yuta, who was heavy and limp and smelling of a campfire. The rest of the two units followed with, as Taeyong had reported, only Taeil still out aside from Yuta.

Taeil was slung between Ten and Renjun, torso carried by the former from under his arms and legs gripped by the latter. It took one moment for Chenle to see the blood they trailed dripping off of Taeil’s body. His forearms and hands were set upon his stomach as they carried him, and it was his hands that were bleeding so profusely.

“We didn’t dare touch them,” Renjun said, hushed as he saw Chenle’s stunned acknowledgement.

Hands shouldn’t have looked like that. They were a scarlet and brown, ruined mess.

Kun nudged his fingers through Chenle’s hair, looking sharp and stripped of the usual warmth to which Chenle was accustomed. He looked unsteady with blood smeared down his cheek from a trickle at his temple, but managed to help get Yuta in the same position that Taeil was being carried in. Taeyong gripped Yuta’s torso and Chenle his legs, and he reminded himself, once again, to breathe.

The ascent was rushed, the sirens rising in volume with each step. Taeyong’s face looked pinched from the sliver Chenle could see, the strain of the situation bordering on mad.

From what Chenle could gather, Youngho and Yoonoh’s units were in the depths of the center—which would be manageable if the center wasn’t a maze. There was someone who had memorized the map in each group, but it relied on their sense of placement, and Chenle could only hope they were so directionally adept.

By the time the other two units could end up making it out, assuming more attacks wouldn’t pepper their retreat, the police could be arrived (or very possibly an even worse form of backup). It was one thing to attack fresh off the boat and another thing to be retreating after barely making it out of something horrible alive. Chenle imagined his hyungs were running on adrenaline alone, which was an improper source for Chaos.

Chenle shook himself back into reality, throat painfully dry as he swallowed.

_“Go,”_ Sicheng hissed as they spilled up the stairs, and Taeyong spit a command to Dongyoung as they rushed out of the alleyway and across the wasteland street.

“Kun, stay inside,” said Taeyong, and there was no room for dispute. Kun did not argue. Chenle was relieved against all odds, that Taeyong had not told him to return to Chaos Relative. He could smell the burnout on everyone around him, and knew that the limits were there for a reason.

The portal opened with an inhale and closed with a hush.

“Time to get the others,” Ten said over the bawling sirens, and the sprint back burned worse that the corpses at their feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is shorter than usual (by a couple hundred words), but I had to 1) get this chapter out and the fic updated and 2) acknowledge that it felt better ending here than it would have if I added in the next scene. My apologies ;; I know you've waited twice as long as usual. I'll try to make the next chapter much more worth it.
> 
> We _should_ be back on schedule after this ^^ sorry for not updating last week! I had some graduation things to sort out. Thank you for your patience ♡ 
> 
> See you soon! Let me know how you're feeling? ;;
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)   
>  [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)   
>  [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	29. Sprint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: injury, blood; you guys are used to my antics by now I'm sure but nonetheless—

_ "If I stopped  
the pain  
was unbearable."  _

\- Mary Oliver

 

It was rare for Sicheng to be dispatched. He’d left the ship plenty of times for errands, scouting, or sideline support, but being in the fray was rarely a clever move. He was a healer with a gun and the potential to give someone a bad rash upon close contact. He was valuable—invaluable—and his members were shifty. Shooting was dangerous unless he was in front, and that was objectively ill-advised.

But, you know, things were falling apart on the wrong side of chaos and his roommate was incapacitated, so advisory actions weren’t Sicheng’s priority. 

As the last of his crew disappeared back down the stairs, Sicheng withdrew down the alley toward the ruin Taeil left behind from his Chaos clap. 

“Stay here,” he told the boy, who objectively looked like murdered scum scraped off the floor. The boy stayed and watched him go.

Every material organic or otherwise in the burnt wreck had cooled, and as the sirens warbled and yelled, he crouched for a gun held in the blistered and crusted hand of an officer.

Away from society, Sicheng did a lot of reading—on plants, on the human body, on guns. He had a particular library on the Real Plane he liked to visit, and hoarded at least three books per week depending on length. Guns were only a focus because, despite hating them, they were a part of their lives.

This one gun which Sicheng wiggled out of their grip was a Daewoo Telecom K7, if he had his memory straight, and was set in the single shot mode to not waste ammunition. If the ELE were smarter, they wouldn’t have released a combustible chemical cloud, but it wasn’t every crew that had Moon Taeil.

Sicheng sighed through his nose and pushed at their charred hips for more magazines. He found three, and he’d have to be satisfied with that and his handgun because he was running out of time.

Rather than away, he sprinted toward the sirens, which as far as he could tell, were all coming from one side of the district. He felt death melting in his bones as he vaulted up the steps of a far apartment complex they had scoped out just the day before. It had an open breezeway on the rising floors, and it was far enough away from the bakery that he would divert away from the disaster zone before they had even reached it.

If he lived anywhere else but the Neo, he would have been winded by the climb to the mid floor as fast as he took it, but climbing the shrouds, swimming, running the deck were a part of life and he would _not_ be beaten by manmade stairs. He set up quickly, breathing calming, steadying breaths through his nose. Only periodically did he look back to where he’d come where the asphalt was blacker than hell.

No more than two minutes passed before the sounds of three sirens broke into the open street and became a song.

Sicheng inhaled once more, gun already cocked, and aimed for the tires of the first police car coming into his sights.

He fired, and felt distance as he missed, but fired again. The third car stopped to deal with him, the first accelerated. His third shot hit the front tire and he watched the vehicle swerve and collide with a brick mailbox, the sound a horrendous screech of metal and smoke that Sicheng promptly ignored. 

The second car kept on, so Sicheng switched to the 3-round burst, hands steadier than what he could have prayed for. He fired for the visible back tires as the car passed below.

He felt no satisfaction when he hit and watched the car swerve, correct, and stutter to a halt—only a burst of adrenaline as an officer thrust themselves out of the third car and took aim at him, close enough to hit. He flattened himself to the wall at an alternative angle, seeing bullets ping the brick, then flung himself back down the apartment hallway.

At the back of the complex was a garden, grass green and foliage lush enough to entice city-sick residents. 

He could hear officers climbing the stairs. 

He hitched himself up onto the railing, breathed out one stagnant fear, and jumped.

He thought of cerulean waters, a plea at his lips.

* * *

The hallways, if possible, seemed even smaller and more stale the second time Renjun traversed them. He could feel some distant, shoved part of him bend under the pressure of the situation, creaking, begging him to break to release the strain.

He couldn’t. He kept his eyes on his hyungs’ backs and thought of his crewmates at the center—of Jeno and Jaemin, who he knew weren’t dead because that would have been reported, but knew very little else. He tried not to think too much about it because if the possibility of them getting shot at was bad, it was much worse to know that they probably had been.

His lungs burned as Ten led them deeper. They were all breathing too loudly, too tired, burning coals, but it didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. There was one option and it was getting their other boys out before something worse happened.

When Renjun heard the cock of a gun, he almost buckled into tears, seizing Chenle’s wrist and dragging him toward him and away from the end of the hallway. Taeyong gave a frustrated, exhausted yell, breath heaving in his chest, and pointed his own gun into the dimness of the hallway.

“TY?” croaked a voice. 

It pulled Renjun’s heart right out of his mouth. 

Because that was Jeno.

That was Jeno.

That was Jeno.

He released Chenle and hurtled toward them as Taeyong sagged into chilled, emotionless relief.

Jeno caught him, nestled his bloody nose and lips right into the crook of Renjun’s neck, the side of his gun loose but cold against the small of Renjun’s back. He felt Jaemin’s fingers curl into the soft skin of his wrist, smelled the iodine-breath right before a chapped kiss to his forehead.

Youngho held a body that reeked just as Mark had, and Mark himself was keeping his distance with Dejun and Yoonoh as his buffers, who held a sagging Jungwoo between the two of them, awake but limping. Jeno smelled disgusting, but was so, so utterly warm and alive. Damaged but alive. And Jaemin was pale and sweaty and his eyes were flickering in something achey and painful but he, too, was alive. He had his hand pressed to his stomach where the cloth was darker than black, and Renjun’s stomach delayed its hurt and anger because—

“Hurry. We don’t have time,” said Taeyong, voice still so hard and rigid. 

Ten had gone to Youngho like a magnet and was helping to maneuver the Bait into something more sustainable in Youngho’s arms. More than just one person carrying a prone body was too slow. “This is why I work out,” Renjun heard Youngho joke, but it fell flat in the fierce dredges of anger and fear.

To the best of their ability and energy, they ran, hearing the sirens reclaim their dominant voices, their blood vibrating under their fragile skins.

The stairs up into the hints of smokey air were hellish on their bodies, hurling themselves up like bodies driving by obsession. The sirens shrieked like banshees, and in a sickening crack of iodine, Jaemin threw up a shield to cover them as they ran for the tiny, tiny gap between buildings that held vines and greenery.

Renjun was choking on his own viscera, echoing on the crackling, overbearing scent of iodine and Jaemin’s single, trembling hand held up.

If he looked left, Renjun could see officers spilling out from a apartment complex stairwell, guns raised and pointed.

The sound of firing would have been fine if Jaemin weren’t visibly diminishing like sugar in a puddle every time the lilac shield was freckled with fire. He staggered on the fifth shot and tripped, Renjun biting into a squeak of fear even as Jeno caught Jaemin around the waist and surged with him tripping like a doll.

Renjun felt the burn of a flicking bullet, gasping as his cheek screamed and bled, and seeing ash as he fell right into purple and right out of sanity.

* * *

Watching his boys spill into Chaos Relative the first time was enough for Dongyoung to rush onto the shore. Sicheng fell through the goddamn sky several feet from the ground and had lain there like a stunned fish (he was; he was stunned and breathless and had landed on his arm) and had been swiftly led back to the ship by Donghyuck. By the second time the main portal opened, Dongyoung was pulling everyone through with gasps and fear and god. God they gave off a fetor like death.

Which means they’d been close to death. Which was terrifying. It was one thing to stare death in the mouth individually, but for his loved ones to see its teeth was something that would haunt him.

Dongyoung nearly suffocated on the idea of losing them, but breathed in anyway and stepped out of the portal by the time half of them were recovered.

In the near distance were a handful of police officers, guns out, stances trained and perfect. All around the scene was a haze of smoke and dazed, glaring lights of police cars through the smog, destruction and pain and death like a perfume from purgatory. In ways he couldn’t have anticipated, Dongyoung was shaken by it all, but he couldn’t dwell in the moment.

As Jeno and Jaemin passed Dongyoung, he held out his hand and flicked his wrist.

The officer he aimed at shouted in alarm as their gun burst out of their grip and skidded across the pavement. The next gun followed, and the next, and the next, until the last of the boys were through and only one gun was left.

Dongyoung’s fingers shook, tingling badly, angrily, but he left the last gun in the hands of a scared and distant officer as he fell back through the gap and reentered home.

The ocean flushed the sand in peaceful night as his brothers heaved breath and collapsed onto the sand in injury and tears.

* * *

Taeil awoke to pain so distinct and overcoming that all his mind could do was scream. His hands felt like metal sponges dripping blood, and he sobbed out horror upon raising his aching head. Theywere broken and useless like puppetry with severed strings. 

The scream in his head broke through his lips.

He screamed and gagged on his own pain until a cool hand covered his mouth and the sound of hushing filled his ears like louder, more urgent waves on the shipside.

“Hyung, please.”

Sicheng’s voice was soft, so soft, and his hand smoothed down Taeil’s cheek to catch the hot tears leaking from his eyes.

He smelled the thick rust of Kun’s Chaos overtake the pain before sleep hit like a jet and left him empty.

* * *

Yuta. Broken rib, three fingers broken, concussion.

Taeil. Hands shattered but nerves intact, dislocated knee.

Kun. Concussion, shin abrasion.

Jaemin. Lost sensation in ring and little finger, laceration to palm, fever.

Jeno. Broken nose, severe bruising around waist, nausea and vomiting, concussion.

Jungwoo. Blood loss, bullet wound in side but no major organs harmed, insomnia, panic.

Renjun. Abrasion to cheek, minimized coordination, oversleeping.

Youngho. Numb upper limbs, severe exhaustion.

Yoonoh. Improving near-blindness, reduced coordination and hearing.

Taeyong. Emotionally incapacitated, tremors.

Chenle. Unharmed, nightmares.

Sicheng. Heavy bruising to one side, dislocated arm.

Ten. Muscle strain, delayed onset muscle soreness.

Mark. Enhanced hallucinations, nightmares, minor bruising.

Dejun. Reduced coordination, nausea, nightmares.

Yangyang. Wounded arm, insomnia, general trauma.

?. Selective mutism, bruised spine, lacerated neck, infection, malnutrition, dehydration, paresthesias, severe hallucinations, paranoia.

* * *

Kunhang tilted his head and let Dejun drape himself over his aching back, feeling the faint heartbeat in his friend’s chest.

“You smell like rubbing alcohol,” said Dejun.

“Huh?”

“Your burnout. That’s what they call it.”

“Oh.”

He _had_ been burning out. He had one trick up his Chaotic sleeve and it was something Sicheng brusquely called “antibody. He brought down infection. Sicheng was worried mad over how nonspecific his knowledge or control of it was—he didn’t know what he was doing. He just knew he could help, and promised Sicheng he would do some research. (“You could be killing other cells too for all we know,” Sicheng had said, though Dongyoung, tired, had insisted he wasn’t dead yet after Kunhang had touched him, and it had been days.)

Sicheng couldn’t be stretched much thinner than he already was. He had to take things slow and only heal as much as necessary, so everyone was making slow progress while Kunhang staved off any dramatic threats of anyone falling especially ill.

Everyone—utterly everyone—was a wreck, but it was somehow peaceful. The damage was overwhelming, but there was a strange, immense contentment with having everyone alive as the ship swayed and lilted on the waters.

They’d properly met Yangyang, whose story was horrendous and whose Chaos made him touch-wary. He was nervous, skittish now that there was some room to feel unsure and scared in an existential rather than mortal way.

Dejun lifted himself off Kunhang, leaning a little in a haze of weak equilibrium, and slung himself into his hammock. Kunhang watched him rock from his chair, then closed his eyes.

It was unspoken that this would be the very last mission this crew would be going on for a long time—not unless they were pushed by extreme forces. There would be time to recover to the degree that they were able and to coordinate a crew that had gained several members too rapidly to acquaint themselves.

Kunhang knew who he meant to start with and Dejun did too—slowly making a home out of people that seemed to fit, and who seemed good, and now irreparably shared a trauma whether they liked it or not. Such was what built families from brine and tree bark.

He dragged himself up from the chair, feeling sodden with exhaustion, and patted Dejun’s knuckles as he went to leave the room. “No nightmares,” he told Dejun.

“No nightmares,” Dejun agreed, and gave the tiniest tilt of a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how many chapters are left, but I do want everyone to know that I fully intend for there to be a sequel. There are many unfinished things to be resolved before I can bid this particular installment adieu, though, so you'll have to wait on a few chapters more (at least). To forewarn, I may take a hiatus from this series before starting the sequel as well—there are some new (but smaller) projects I want to tackle while I'm buffering plans for the second installment. Until then, my weekly updates will continue, and as soon as I know how much is left, I'll update the chapter limit.
> 
> I think that arc was as stressful for me as it may have been for many of you. I thought about not resolving it this chapter, but I am weak and these boys have suffered so much. I hope you've felt some relief, and there will be a good amount of healing and catharsis to look forward to ♡ 
> 
> Thank you for your endurance during this stressful time. You have all my love and appreciation. I'm kind of unsure about this chapter but I hope hope hope you all enjoyed ♡ 
> 
>  
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)  
> [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)  
> [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	30. Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those of you reading right now before I have any quotes up, forgive me. I'm using data to update right now and don't have time to search haha ;; Love you guys!! Enjoy!

** (Memory **

“We’re losing butterflies,” said the man, the small body of the creature lazy exploring his fingertip where he’d pulled it from the netting of their hatchery. “The insect apocalypse.”

“The what?” Mark asked, looking away from the sleepy blinking of orange and black crepe paper wings. They’d release them soon and start the same thing next year in maybe a larger batch.

“The insect apocalypse,” said the man, and he looked away from the monarch to his son, a wistful knowledge sparkling in his eyes. "We used to go outside and they’d be everywhere."

“Butterflies?”

“Everything.”

Mark stared at him, then flinched when one of the butterflies fluttered out of the hatchery, drifting past his nose.

“Ants, bees, crickets, mosquitoes,” his dad said, and gave a gentle blow to his finger, watching the monarch waft off like dandelion fluff. He leaned back on his palms in the grass and watched it go as the sun curled around their faces. “They were obnoxious, but it was just how things were. And humans act like it pains us to adapt, but we do. Nature’s a little less flexible.”

These thoughts swirled in the warm air between them, and Mark mulled over these new, secondary feelings of loss as he thumbed over a scab on his knee. “How so?”

With a huff, his father dropped to his back, the wind knocking out of him by his own actions. Another butterfly roamed out of the nets, and Mark let his eyes follow it.

“You’ve seen those post-apocalyptic movies, right? Where the buildings are all run-down. How nature’s come to reclaim even the skyscrapers.”

“Yes.”

“Imagine it this way. Nature is a long rod with strong elasticity. You poke at it, and it snaps back. If humans were to vanish, it would take some time, but nature would snap back, just like that, and reclaim what’s hers.” Mark could almost hear it in his mind. The little twang like a guitar string. “But the pressure has to let up. The rod is only so long, and it can only stretch so far. Humans adjust, and we just keep adjusting, and we forget how things should be and push a little harder, and suddenly the center of the earth is fifteen feet away from where it should be, ready to break.”

It wasn’t like Mark didn’t know this, but he held his breath all the same. “What happens when it breaks?”

Like his father had read his mind, he turned to him and smiled in a way that was wry and a little sad. “You know when a guitar string breaks? The first time it happened to me, the string whipped back and hit me under the eye.” His father prodded at the scarred dash of flesh there, and Mark remembered him telling the story. He’d almost gone blind in that one. “We die, little one. Nature hits back, and we die.”

** End.) **

 

 

 

Sicheng stared at the bandaged hands of his roommate and let himself bite his nails into nubs of nothing. The sour feeling of burnout curdling was letting up smoke in his core, so he’d stopped healing at the adamant behest of Taeil, who had a refined nose for Sicheng’s scent in particular. It was annoying.

“It’s not that bad,” Taeil said, wriggling up to settle more comfortably against his pillows. His face was drawn in the pain Sicheng couldn’t take away.

Sicheng dropped his hand, a surge of prickly annoyance batting at his heart. “You say that like you didn’t cry the first time you saw them.”

Taeil tilted his head and gave a hint of a smile through the pain glittering in his eyes. He said nothing, just looked at Sicheng like _that_ as if he didn’t know it was downright peeving. “I’m going to go check on the others,” Sicheng grumbled, standing up from the foot of his own bed where Taeil was sprawled.

“Winwinnie,” Taeil said, and Sicheng winced because christ his pet name could sound so gross sometimes. Not usually, but when Taeil said it like honey it did. “I’ll be able to touch you again, okay?”

Sicheng sucked in a breath and bared his teeth to his roommate, which only made Taeil give a tiny laugh much like a giggle.

“Please relax. I feel better every day. I’ve done, what? Five days of healing in three?” He tilted his head the other way, as if making up for his lost mobility and attempting to placate Sicheng with his gaze from different angles.

The truth of the matter was that somehow. Somehow, the mangled state of Taeil’s hands under the bandages and splints felt like some sort of failure on his own part. He felt a stinging sense of frustration and anger every time he saw them, like someone had done him a great injury when he wasn’t looking. It felt personal. It felt like someone had hurt him directly, as far away as he had been.

“I hate it,” Sicheng croaked, then blushed at the emotion he hadn’t even attempted to smother in his own voice.

Taeil’s eyes, always soft, softened further, and it was unfair. It was unfair and Sicheng writhed under how intimate it felt from a full foot away. “I’ll be okay. Come back to me when you’re done and we can go get lunch.”

Sicheng hissed through the burn in his throat, nodded once, then turned tail so he could escape the warmth directed at him from Taeil’s presence. His roommate was safe, and that’s what really mattered.

Besides, he had to check on Yukhei.

* * *

Some people became frequent visitors in Dejun and Kunhang’s room. And, Yukhei supposed, his own.

Yukhei remembered crossing into Chaos Relative (as they called it) very clearly because everything—from the air to his torment—became softer. It had been agony when they’d peeled off his clothes and sunk him in the ocean, though. He’d thought, in that moment, that he was in his death throes. That the small reprieve was his last breath of relief before death took him and honestly, he was done. Had been done for a long time. As much as he didn’t objectively want life to end, he wanted everything else to.

The pain he had endured leading up to his entry into the burning salts of the ocean had been about all he could withstand.

Whoever had submerged him, though, had gentle hands. Even as every injury seared, he felt parts of himself sloughing away in dead skin and grime and fluid, and the end result of him was something he'd entirely forgotten could exist.

He remembered being free but ill, nose clogged up to the point that after a day, he'd completely forgotten what it was like to breathe like a normal person.

In that moment, he could almost grasp what it was like to be normal with his eyes tightly closed and his skin and injuries aflame. He ached less in some ways as he floated, mouth open skyward to drink in air he'd never tasted before. It had a palpably beautiful taste. Like breathing sunlight even as his throat throbbed and flaked with the same enduring pain.

"Alright buddy." Yukhei recognized that voice. It was the same one that had carried him all the way to the water, though he would have never known wherever he'd been trapped was so close to the waves he was hearing and feeling. "We gotta get you onboard, but it's gonna hurt again. Did something happen to your back?"

Yukhei knew the correct response would be to nod or say something, but some parts of him recognized that he didn't have to move anymore. Whoever this person was wouldn't stab him in the neck if he refused to move, and Yukhei could feel his limbs lock up in illness and exhaustion. He wouldn't even nod. Not if he didn't have to.

Little pinpricks of florid pink flower petals drifted across his closed vision, backlit by fire and lightning as the sun tried to reach his irises. It was one of the first pleasant hallucinations he'd seen in a long time. In fact, it was one of the first light-lit hallucinations he'd seen just about ever, and it shivered all the way through his bruised spine.

"Mark, you okay to lift with me? He's pretty light."

Yukhei heard a little hum, and then something brushed against his shoulder blades, the backs of his legs, his heels, his head, and dragged him out of the water.

His mind supplied many wrong things. A giant's hand, its smooth palm slick enough to tumble him straight into a rotten maw. The underbelly of a dead shark, rising to nestle along his injured back. The drowned bodies of the lost forming a raft to only fold over him and suck him under.

None of that happened. Instead, the air froze over him in a breath and against his will, he shivered, the pain of the involuntary movement juddering pain through his cells like tiny hammers hitting his bones all at once. "Just a second, buddy. You'll be dry and warm in a second."

Yukhei whimpered through a shredded throat because it was all he could manage, and the first voice made a soothing sound.

His back had been been the first thing to suddenly no longer become a problem. Hands had held him firmly, painfully straight, pressing on his spine, and then something had breached into and through his skin like burnt sugar. Whatever had been ruined had realigned softly like a teddy bear's arm being sewn back on with the tiniest needle.

Having everything align had made him gasp. All his surface injuries had remained, but in light of his main pillar being... structurally sound again, he could hardly feel any of it.

Again, his mind had given him slew upon slew of strange, wrong images, but nothing amounted to them, so he endured through them like a spectator, watching as mechanical arms reached for him and pulled phantom limbs. The mental attention itched, but he’d handled worse.

Some other things had been removed from him as well in one singular, powerful wrench and the pungent smell of alcohol. It got a lot easier to think after that.

After feeling himself rocking back and forth for what had to have been hours, watching the world pulse in vivid images and colors (whips of fire that used to reach his skin, writhing masses nearly close enough to slide down his throat, ants in trains of fluorescent blue burning and biting up his skin)—

“Do you want to try opening your eyes?”

The voice was strange—certainly one Yukhei hadn’t heard before. Out of all the voices he heard in his head, even, this one wasn’t familiar. For a moment, his mind scrambled over itself to accommodate it, flinging a screaming face into his periphery and making him flinch.

“Give it a try, big guy. The world isn’t as scary as it was back there.”

Yukhei had to remember how to do it, the movement almost too long forgotten to do on instinct.

He saw brown, though it had been a very long time since he had seen a color so mild. It was hazy, and he couldn’t focus, and for the next minute he spent more time with his eyes closed than open, but eventually things sharpened.

“You’re on a boat. What you’re looking at is a bunch of roots that make up the ceiling and the planks beneath you. You’re not trapped here. You can leave this room whenever you’re ready, but it’s bright out there.”

Yukhei let his eyes trace the lithe lines knitted into each other like a long-armed embrace. There was a tiny twig reaching out from a hairline crevice, little leaves plucking out like round exclamation marks.

He exhaled slowly.

“My name is Yuta,” said the voice, and it came from Yukhei’s right side, he now knew. He was scared to turn his head, to move, maybe to see something grotesque but mostly because everything he knew screamed to him that it would be painful.

Still, Yukhei turned his head in the midst of a deep breath that pressed on the insides of his sore ribs. Leaning against an ivy-strewn wall was a man with long, neat hair and a patient expression. When Yukhei caught his eyes, the man inclined his head, then gestured to his side, where there was someone else. “This is Mark. It’s just the two of us here right now.”

Mark was shorter and smaller, with big, earnest eyes and eyebrows that curved like a child’s rendition of bird wings.

“Hello,” Mark said. “What’s your name?”

“Yukhei,” he said, but it was scratchy and muddy and didn’t sound like the voice he thought was his own. “Wong Yukhei,” he said more persistently.

Yuta smiled, and the expression captured Yukhei’s attention like a shiny bauble. “Welcome to Neo Culture, Wong Yukhei.”

* * *

“Do me a favor.”

“No.”

“Brat.”

Yangyang squirmed, trying to retain an expression of defiance rather than delight. Kun looked exasperated, but in a way Yangyang liked—like his gege would put him in a headlock and toss him in the ocean, not pull a gun on him. Kun laughed before Yangyang got the opportunity to.

“Fine,” Kun said, stretching out his back and reaching for the bag between his thigh and Dejun’s. They sat in the middle of the Neo with the main mast to their backs. Dejun had elected himself to be Yangyang’s guide, though he was about as new as Yangyang was, and Kun had wordlessly elected himself to be some sort of bereaved father-figure. Yangyang liked it.

Kun pulled out a bruised fruit from the bag with a little flourish and presented it for Yangyang’s appraisal. “So you can make a man piss himself, but can you rot a fruit?”

Dejun propped his cheek against his palm, elbow on his knee, and glittered at Yangyang in curiosity. “Humans are social creatures and I’ve already been kissed in the neck by a dongsaeng. You gotta learn how to control your Chaos somehow. Maybe we can start with fruit.”

Yangyang wriggled his bare toes and considered the little stone fruit. “That’s food waste.”

“Well,” said Kun, placing the plum on the ground between them, “we’re kind of assuming your abilities aren’t toxic. We can use it as fertilizer just fine.”

With a hum, Yangyang reached for the fruit and rolled it gently between his palms. Its thin skin was soft against his own. “You want to check if I can do it first, right?”

Kun nodded. “Don’t know yet if yours is people-specific.”

Taking a deep breath, Yangyang let the feeling in his belly unfurl, narrowing in on the plum and letting it snap loose against his fingertips. With a noise Yangyang had never heard before, personally, the plum exploded with the most gag-worthy scent Yangyang had ever smelled.

His fingers dripped with rotten pulp in dissolving shades of brown, and when he finally looked up, wiping the juice from under his eye, he had to bite his lip to keep an anxious laugh in.

“Jesus,” Kun exhaled, pulling at his sleeve to wipe away the hunks of decayed fruit flesh from above his eyebrow. It was right next to his healing injury, but Yangyang thought there were worst places to have a scar. Dejun was curled over himself in a fit of wheezing giggles, juice dripping off his pretty nose.

Yangyang tried to ignore the little seed of panic growing roots in his veins, but it was difficult. “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Kun said. “No, it’s not a problem. This is why we practice. Lots of Chaos act up.”

With a heavy inhale, Dejun leveled his gaze on Yangyang, fingers locked together. “You’re doing great.”

Carefully, Yangyang relaxed and accepted the next fruit Kun handed his way. “It’s not—it’ll be okay.”

“It’ll be okay,” Kun confirmed. “Dejun’s right. You're doing great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. I know it's a late update but I've done worse!! We've got a little left to cover before we start wrapping up, but not much ♡ I hope this chapter and the next ones to follow feel like a reward for how much stress you endured with the prior chapters. Please enjoy ♡ and let me know how you feel if you have any thoughts to share!


	31. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is completely unedited! Please forgive me!
> 
> That being said, I'm... really really pleased with this chapter. I hope everyone enjoys.
> 
> After this, I think maybe there are two more chapters left. Maybe three. I'm putting a chapter limit at last on this fic, but if it changes from 33 to 34 somewhere down the line, don't be alarmed. We're truly almost done.

_"You could not step twice into the same rivers; for other waters are ever flowing on to you."_ \- Heraclitus

 

Burnout manifested differently in every witch and was generally couched in the nature of their Chaos. It mattered less what arbitrary category they’d been sorted into and more the details of their abilities. Yoonoh was partially blind for the greater part of four days for having pushed as hard as he had—they all managed to find humor in it. There was nothing else to be managed with such frustrations. They could either gripe or endure through other means.

“Did Doyoung give up on you?” 

Yoonoh startled in the chair he sat in, then tried to pretend he hadn’t by standing up smoothly, even as his hand darted out to steady himself against the table. “Of course not,” he said, turning his face toward the human-shaped blob in the doorway. If he heard correctly, he was pretty damn sure it was Ten who intruded. “I just wanted to get some lunch.”

Ten gave a good-natured sound of amusement and approached to sit on the opposite side of the table. “It’s been damn entertaining to see you miss your mouth every other bite.”

“Yes, well,” Yoonoh said, and sat down carefully for the risk of missing the chair, which he had done the first time he entered the dining room. It would be fine if his vision was the only thing utterly crippled, but his hearing and smell and just about everything was dysfunctional at best, and his balance, coordination, and equilibrium were suffering for it. “It’s more like I’m pretty sure I can do this on my own, and Doyoung’s still recovering, too.”

Ten hummed, and Yoonoh could dimly hear the light thudding of fingertips on the tabletop. Yoonoh’s vision wasn’t blurry, per se. It was just mostly dark and hazy. His hearing felt funneled, and his sense of touch was off somehow. Delayed, maybe. It was hard to tell, but it was the third day and he could only vaguely recall what things looked like. It would be frightening if he didn’t know his senses were already returning. Gradually, but returning. As it was, the worst thing about burnout was the migraine, which he intended to suffer through silently.

“How are you?” Yoonoh asked, and attempted to pick up the rice and curry with his fingers. Utensils were a damned tool during these trying times. He wouldn’t endure them, and his hands were clean.

“Sore like a fuck gone wrong,” Ten said. Yoonoh could see that he was moving in some way, his form elongating (stretching?), and Ten’s voice went taut, but he was at a loss beyond that. “Nothing permanent, I don’t think.” Now that the conversation had properly taken off, Yoonoh could appreciate how deliberately Ten was articulating his words. It was thoughtful.

“Is there anyone with permanent damage?” Yoonoh asked, then took a mouthful (successfully) and rued how dim the flavors were.

“Taeil, maybe,” Ten said. “Jaemin.”

Clumsily, Yoonoh gave some jazz hands, his own hands barely healed from the bruises he'd collected from the small amount of brawling he had done, and Ten snorted. “Vulnerable tools.”

“Yukhei, too, maybe, but they’re paying a lot of attention to him.”

Yoonoh nodded. The kid was regarded with some delicacy—just as he ought to be. He hadn’t so much as seen a peep of him for good reason. Only a few people saw him, and when he would be led around later, they’d be careful not to overwhelm him. They’d been messy with Mark, though he’d handled it well. They’d do better this time.

“Hey Doyoung,” Ten said, and that was the only warning Yoonoh got before he felt Dongyoung’s fingers brush his neck, fingertips cool. “Was wondering if you’d abandoned him.”

Doyoung scoffed, and Yoonoh could see the shape of his body sit in the chair closest to him. His fingers drifted to Yoonoh’s knee and determined to reside there. Yoonoh went back to eating for the privilege of listening in, instead. “I’m not his keeper.”

“He just looks like a baby deer,” Ten teased. “All wobbly and easily-startled.”

Yoonoh could feel them looking at him, but not much else. He shrugged anyway, and wished he could see Dongyoung’s expression. “Can’t stop him from being self-competitive. If he wants to challenge himself to walk the full length of the ship, I’ll just hope he doesn’t die.”

It was nice to hear laughter. Even as his senses were shot, he could still feel the ship relaxing along with her occupants. The tension had been exhausting.

While Ten and Dongyoung talked further, Yoonoh snuck his hand to Dongyoung’s and grasped clumsily at his thumb. Dongyoung adjusted their hands to interlock, and everything felt generally a little better. The ship rocked in hazy, muddy browns and greens. The world moved on.

* * *

Taeyong wasn’t sure where things changed—what he missed in the mess of everything that allowed the both of them to silently breach the lines they’d been wary of crossing prior. What was worse about the situation was that Taeyong had little to no feelings available to spend toward caring. He’d managed the smallest flash of irritation after dropping his phone for the nth time the third morning, but so far, that had been the only present emotion he could claim.

As far as he could recall, Yuta and he had never cuddled, but he could not complain or resist for the life of him. For the first time in three days, he felt a little less empty.

The sway of the ship was hardly there to Taeyong as Yuta breathed in sleep against his neck, body heavy halfway on top of his own in the hammock. Yuta’s dangled abandoned just a few feet away, dressed up in Prussian blue blankets and a dark pillow.

Since the time where he knew they were all safe, what felt like a yawning, pitch black emptiness turned into something achingly brutal in his chest. Like emotions bent out of shape so horribly they only resembled an erratic drip of spoiled oil. He lacked the words to explain it—a chasm so empty his heartbeat echoed with metallic ice. The tremors were horrible, and some sick part of his brain thought it was because he was cold. Empty, chilled like a slow death, shaking so badly because his cells were desperate to mimic warmth. It was difficult to get up in the mornings because such emptiness felt a lot like pain, and even worse was looking at the people he loved and feeling nothing. No love, no endearment or fondness or even irritation.

Playing with others’ emotions—trespassing so violently—took a high toll, and if he were to lack even a shred of logic, the aftermath of severe burnout would end him.

Like this, though, with Yuta pressed up against him, he almost felt alive. If he looked down, Yuta’s hair was wishing in his face, and as empty as Taeyong felt, he could appreciate, distantly, beauty. It was removed, and it was broken, but he was pretty sure Yuta was beautiful.

They’d obtained him, so to speak, very soon after their Neo took sail. They’d been lucky in some ways and not others. If the retrieval at the bakery was not their worst encounter, fighting for Yuta would have to take the gold. He didn’t like thinking about it, but they’d gathered Yoonoh and Youngho in one go as well, and even the mental scars he bore paled in comparison to gaining three brothers.

Yuta’s old injuries were still visible if Taeyong tried to find them. There was a place Yuta’s hair would not grow, a litter of burn lines like cell bars down his back, traces of lacerations on his thighs. On a normal day, seeing the old scars made Taeyong’s vision flash white—the more recent ones were never as painful.

Taeyong hoped to god that Mark and Yukhei both would be able to recover their minds totally, but the hope that Yuta would slipped from his grasp sometime during the early part of the year. The hallucinations would still come in Yuta’s worst, most vulnerable moments. The phantom pains wracking his nightmares would still crawl through his limbs like fanged hands. They hadn’t ceased. Grown less frequent? Yes. And Yuta was happier and safer than ever, so he was rarely triggered beyond the nonsensical, unreasonable traces of the mind. But they had not disappeared, and they had not diminished so significantly as to leave him without for longer than a month.

Taeyong let himself keep thinking about Yuta until he felt a little flick of a different sort of pain in his throat. He nearly choked on it, but was glad to feel it. Gripped it tightly.

The truth was: none of them would ever be the same. The sheer absurdity of life as they knew it had surpassed their ability to spring back to where they had been before the Chaos started. It was impossible to bounce back from trauma on this scale—the kind that dented their worldview like a bullet (too harshly to hammer back without the slit left behind). 

Taeyong had never been able to comprehend mortality like he knew it now. He never would have imagined he would shoot a gun, let alone shoot a person. He hadn’t known what fear for his loved ones could do to him.

He wasn’t ashamed. He knew the discourse concerning their cause. But he did feel loss.

He wanted to know if there was an end. 

Would they lose? Would the Earth die and they’d end?

Would they succeed for a time or for all time? Was that possible?

Were Chaos Entities a new breed to remain?

He held greater fear over this possible loss, now: having to go back, to forget, to lose what and who he had gained, even if it was through blood and grime and horror. He remembered his first family, and at times he yearned for them, but at the current moment (and for a long time, now), if he were given the choice, he would choose Neo.

It terrified him, but felt a lot like home all the same.

* * *

“You’re not afraid,” Donghyuck said, voice whipping down from three feet above him.

“No,” Mark replied, “I don’t think so.”

His hallucinations had relapsed into something strange. He couldn’t shake them, but they didn’t disturb him so much anymore. They simply… existed. As Donghyuck led him up the shrouds (quite literally showing him the ropes), Mark could see down below a rippling mass of dark purple like a witch’s brew spilled across the deck. It made shapes out of itself and reached for him. If it touched him, he didn’t feel it. Occasionally, the ropes would turn brassy and strange under his fingers. He didn’t feel that either.

That was the trick. Of course, some things surprised him, but he’d wrestled with his emotions until it twisted into morbid curiosity over anxiety. In the first days of his arrival and healing, the images went away if he ignored them strongly enough. They didn’t, now, though time would eventually make them fade. They just didn’t feel like a threat because none of them—absolutely none—actually were real to the touch.

He didn’t get phantom pains. Not while he was awake, anyway. He was still working through the nightmares. He just got phantom images and weird, bizarre figures, and they wouldn’t go away if he asked or ignored or complained or even embraced them. They left if they felt like it, and sometimes he thought about them and sometimes he didn’t. If he wasn’t sure if something was real, he’d ask, and most of the crew was utterly unfazed by the request. It helped that he didn’t think he heard anything false, either. That trauma went away. He was just stuck with this, probably.

And after a good time looking at his hallucinations and their weird, aggressive, and even sometimes violent ways, he wasn’t scared of much. Dongyoung had offered up his admiration for how well Mark was doing so quickly, and Mark supposed he could be proud of this singular thing.

“You’re really not afraid of heights?” Donghyuck asked, and he’d paused on the ropes to wait for Mark, elbows tangled in the knots to keep him steady as he watched. His tank top was loose and flag-like in the wind, hair ruffling in the wind. It looked soft. All of Donghyuck looked soft. Mark wouldn’t know for sure whether he was or not, though. All he knew was his hands were not.

“Not right now, I guess,” Mark told him, pausing when he came to eye-level with the boy. His arms were burning, actually. He still felt weak most days, but it was getting better.

“Guess I wouldn’t be scared either if I’d gone through what you did.” Mark watched Donghyuck’s gaze graze his neck where the tiniest trace of a rope scar still resided. “Can’t be worse than torture.”

Mark considered this for only the slightest moment. It was easy for him to conclude that yeah, no. Not much would ever be worse than torture. He was pretty sure of that.

There were a lot of things that outweighed the bad of that experience, though, and Mark clung to them as much as he could.

Donghyuck, for instance, looked like nothing else Mark could fathom in the sunlight, the day dripping off his shoulders like honey wine. The beauty of the little things in Chaos Relative had come over Mark slowly, and Donghyuck had probably hit him first. He seemed like a thing of unreality, but Mark was delighted to know Donghyuck was tangible. A little flighty, but tangible.

“Should I not have mentioned it?” Donghyuck asked, eyes searching Mark’s own, and he realized he must have zoned out for a moment for Donghyuck to worry about him.

“No,” Mark said. “I was just thinking.”

Donghyuck leaned further into the ropes and fiddled with the oil-green fibers. “What were you thinking about?”

Mark paused, listening to the creak of the ship and her rods and beams and silver threads of metal. He wasn’t obtuse—if he told Donghyuck he thought he was beautiful, that might very well start something very very new. Mark knew he was still recovering, even with all the progress he’d made. He still got startled, and lost, and confused, and he sometimes didn’t know which way was up or which thing was a daydream until he prodded it.

“I was wondering if you were happy,” Mark asked. It was not the question he’d thought he would ask, but he found himself intrigued by it as soon as he asked it.

Donghyuck’s face twisted into an expression Mark knew well. It translated to: _You’re very strange, Mark Lee._ But his words were different. “I think so. You guys feel a lot like home, and that’s good enough.”

The nice thing was, Mark had an excellent memory—he knew exactly what every crew member looked like, what their voices sounded like, every nook and cranny of the ship he’d explored so far. He remembered his friends back home, his family, even the relatives he hardly saw.

The nice thing was, Mark was pretty sure he’d be able to remember this moment perfectly. Because beautiful or not, he rather thought he loved being a part of someone’s home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what your thoughts are! I hope everyone feels a little less stressed now that most finals are over and done with, and I hope these chapters feel relaxing as well. Be kind to yourselves, please. And truly! Consider reaching out. I really enjoy talking with you guys.
> 
> Much love and best wishes ♡ 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)   
>  [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)   
>  [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	32. Ahold Some Things New

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I beg you to forgive my unedited being. I know this is a late update—it's been nearly impossible to find time to write this week. I just wanted to get this out for you guys. If you find any terrible typos or errors, feel free to bother me about them ♡

_“Of course, the Goddess is not just benevolent and fertile, She is also death-dealing and the destroyer. But these are natural forces, neither good nor bad, in the impersonal universal dance.”_ \- Monica Sjöö

 

After what felt like more than three days, the wound in Junwoo’s side stopped giving off flares of sunset orange like solar bursts. Once that died down, most of everything else did too, though he had to admit it was through sheer willpower alone. Willpower didn’t often do too much good for anxiety, but a fierce determination to not be the broken boy in the underbelly of the Neo again really did some magic, he would have liked to think.

Slowly, the ship seeped back into its mellow sweetness, easing out of blaring neons and trembling brights.

But for the first time in his life as a witch to date, he felt himself shatter into something garish and vivid the first time he even so much as came near Yukhei’s line of vision.

The boy was let out in the morning of the fourth day, and everyone was of the loose opinion that Jungwoo would be a good member for Yukhei’s acclimation. Instead, in Jungwoo’s own periphery, his body lit up like a glitching Christmas tree in beams of periwinkle and sea-green. It startled him, and he watched through a haze as Yukhei’s eyes darted right away from him and Yuta, equally but quietly alarmed, led him away.

Jungwoo remained in the sleeping corridor, watching the colors drip off him slowly and into nothingness.

As far as he had ever understood, the colors bloomed whenever he perceived danger to himself. He could stretch it further if he loved others strongly enough—their injury and danger hurt him just as badly in many ways—but Yukhei was a stranger, and Jungwoo couldn’t understand the notion of himself bursting into color at the sight of another person.

A danger to himself? That was a new one.

It ended up being Yukhei and him both avoiding each other—Yukhei for unknown reasons, Jungwoo because he was still recovering and couldn’t handle being flushed with panic and confusion because of… his own self?

It was everyone’s opinion on ship that their latest mission would be the last in a while. To Jungwoo, that meant time to relax, to steady himself once again. But Nature apparently saw fit to not allow him rest, which She seemed prone to disallowing.

Jungwoo would be intrigued if he weren’t so confused. At the end of a small part of their lives, he didn’t expect to be slapped so hard by such a fresh new beginning. A mystery.

But for all he had lost in gaining his Chaos, he’d never be anything at all if he weren’t determined and itching for answers. He could embrace this, he supposed. Maybe.

* * *

Somehow, it felt like some mad joke to Renjun that Jaemin and Jeno got out of that mission in such horrific condition.

Jaemin had been one of Sicheng’s priorities upon return, though he could only heal to the minimum. The puckered, angry scabbing and pink slashing across Jaemin’s palm straight through the middle would undoubtably leave a nasty scar, but that wasn’t really a loss. The fact that Jaemin could feel absolutely nothing in his ring and pinkie fingers somehow actually hurt. Renjun had listened to what he could of what the damage had been (“The ulnar nerve—” said Sicheng), but ultimately, it was miserable to watch Jaemin's tentative attempt at figuring out how to hold things with his left hand.

“I mean,” said Jaemin, “at least I don’t have to switch writing hands.”

They sat on the deck where they preferred to be, the sunshine sinking into their skin and making them feel a little less like they each were still splitting at the seams.

Jeno was difficult to make chatty the last handful of days just for the effort of trying to stave off his periodic bouts of nausea. On top of that, his body was tender and easy to hurt. The bruising around his waist had startled Renjun so badly he’d almost teared up, and his pretty nose was in the sad middle stages of a horrible bruise. He was a steady presence all the same, though, and pitched in when he felt well enough. His hand rested on Jaemin’s outer thigh for the time being as he rested his head in Renjun’s lap and relaxed through his hair being played with.

Jaemin’s fever had knocked him out almost totally the first day and a half, though it was nothing more than a signal of exhaustion and a limit pushed almost too far. He wasn’t ill beyond the fever. As he was now, he just was overly warm, breaking out in a sweat when his fever flashed back over him, and Renjun wanted desperately for him to sleep well enough for his fever to break.

The worst of Renjun’s lot was how sleepy he felt—the lack of coordination was manageable and only visited him every so often, but all he wanted to do at the core of his being was to sleep for four days straight. It clashed badly with every other part of his motivation and being, and he hated how much he’d been sleeping lately.

In the midst of Renjun mulling over this sparse optimism Jaemin had offered, Jeno touched a kiss to Renjun’s drifting palm. Renjun sucked in a breath, which drew Jaemin’s attention away from the trio of twigs he was trying to pick up and grip properly with his left hand.

Jaemin’s gaze warmed at the whisper of that affection Jeno’s kiss had given. “Feeling okay, Jen?” he murmured, brushing his working hand over the visible patch of bruised skin on Jeno’s hip.

Jeno nodded and nestled his face against Renjun’s belly, thumb running over Jaemin’s knee. “Just listening,” he said, voice thrumming up against Renjun’s navel. It warmed him like Jaemin’s gaze.

“I’m sorry you’re sick,” Renjun said, which he repeated once every couple of hours it seemed. Jeno didn’t mind as far as he could tell, which Renjun appreciated. There was so little he could do aside from offer words of feeble comfort.

“It’s passing,” he murmured, and let out a soft breath when Jaemin ducked down to brush his lips against his temple. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jaemin said, bright and fond, and Renjun’s feelings were nigh unmanageable in that moment, but he withstood the urge to curl up and whine. He hadn’t even been the one who Jaemin had kissed.

Jaemin’s gaze drifted back up and his eyes squinted just a little in a smile. “Is it time for sleep again?”

“No,” Renjun immediately said, automatically bitter. “Sleeping is for the weak.”

“I resemble that statement,” Jeno mumbled, and Renjun immediately softened. He didn’t mean for that statement to resemble anyone but himself.

“We could make a blanket pile in the corner of our room,” Jaemin suggested, eyes aglitter and leaning forward like he was organizing something wicked instead of soft. “We all need sleep.”

Renjun hummed, his will buckling underneath his feet. “Okay,” he said almost before he realized he’d been convinced.

Jaemin reached out to turn the tables and brush his fingers through Renjun’s hair, then brought himself to a stand. “Let’s go, then. Naptime.”

“He always gets what he wants,” Renjun muttered without venom, and Jeno huffed from his lap before rolling off him carefully.

“Good thing he wants what’s best for us,” Jeno said, smiling a little as he stood, and offered his hand for Renjun. He took it, and maybe found himself looking forward to sleeping if just this once.

* * *

In a lot of ways, Youngho was deeply entertained by his entire crew going through their healing processes. No one was in so much danger to make his humor land skewed, so instead he could be fully amused by how many times Taeyong dropped his phone or how frequently Yoonoh narrowly missed a wall with his entire body. As for himself, he wished he knew how to do things better with his toes, because moving his arms was like tearing a new filament every inch.

“No, don’t you dare eat with your feet,” Ten said, voice just a tinge away from appalled, and Youngho just managed to abort a laugh before it wreaked havoc in his chest. His ribs felt like hollow wind chimes—it was by far the strangest effect of his burnout, where his bones felt brittle enough to crack if he was nudged too harshly. It made him nervous enough that he moved with more care than ever.

“I suppose you’ll just have to feed me, then,” Youngho suggested, and reveled in Ten’s eye-roll with a reserved giggle. 

“Like that’d go well,” Ten snorted, nodding his chin at the kimchi fried rice that Dongyoung had fixed for everyone. It was less than sticky enough to be a clean food to shove into Youngho’s mouth, so he was just left pushing a pout into Ten’s shoulder. For a moment, it felt silly and casual, but then Youngho’s heart began to be dangerous in his chest where it thrummed against his fragile ribs.

Just when he was about to pull back to save himself from a fracture, Ten’s hand came up to brush Youngho’s cheek, charmed bracelet slinking down his wrist.

“How are you feeling, really?” Ten asked, fingertips just touching the edges of Youngho’s eyelashes. Youngho pulled away slowly—less for his safety and more so he could see Ten properly.

“Tired,” Youngho replied honestly, and snagged Ten’s falling hand to lace his fingers there even as his upper arms tried to destroy him for the effort. Ten’s knuckles were a brutal shade of purple and green, and he avoided them entirely.

“Is it time to stretch again?” Ten asked, reaching to spoon up some of his fried rice and munch on it himself.

Youngho winced, but tilted his head in admission, opening his mouth and unleashing his puppy eyes. Ten’s lips hooked in amusement, and he offered up another spoonful to slip against Youngho’s bottom lip and past his teeth. Two grains fell, but Youngho was one less mouthful away from pathetically starving to death.

“Let’s go, then, and then you can finish eating.” Ten rose from his seat with a delicate wince, suffering his own ruined muscles. Even in pain, there was a ridiculous smoothness and grace to Ten’s movements, and Youngho tended to follow like a man drifting from room to room in a museum. Youngho knelt with one knee down and offered his thigh for Ten to lower himself to the floor of the dining room. It was strange to see his muscles shake as he sat on the wooden slats, straightening his legs slowly.

“Why do you think burnout happens?” Youngho asked. Everyone had visited the idea either in brief or at length, though he’d never happened to ask Ten. 

Ten hummed once, wincing again and letting out a shaky exhale as he settled his hands between his knees and crawled his torso forward. “I don’t think humans are meant to handle the powers of the Earth, Johnny,” he breathed. “She is different than us. I could not survive in the way a whale does, nor an ant.”

Youngho made a sound as he watched Ten fold, Ten’s eyebrows pinched in reserved pain, breathing himself through the ache. Youngho lowered himself all the way to the floor as well, relaxed his hands, then pulled his fingers gently back with the other hand. He couldn’t help the hiss as even his tendons protested. “Do you think she could live as a human?” Youngho asked.

“No,” Ten said simply, sounding strained. “Though who am I to know Her?”

Youngho was of the opinion that burnout was a warning—just like running too far for too long might wreck a person ill-prepared, so could spending one’s Chaos. He recalled having far less stamina than he did, now, though he rather figured he had one of the most exhausting Chaos of their crew. His Chaos sent out smoke a lot faster than the others, though his was admittedly one of the more complicated Chaos. Renjun, too, seemed to struggle to work his Chaos more than a few times. Yuta and Mark, on the other hand, seemed to have little to no evident burnout when the rest of them had reached their limits, though Yoonoh had sworn by Yuta smelling like a campfire after too long. 

Youngho had seen to little of Mark at work to say, but Donghyuck being incapacitated and Mark untouched had said something significant to him at the time.

Maybe he was doing it wrong. It was difficult for him to practice, since someone else had to be willing to endure his experimenting, and he wasn’t terribly keen on asking.

In any case, whether it was because they were harnessing the power of a god or running further than they were able, Youngho was rather grateful for the burnout. He had a feeling that if any of them pushed much further beyond it, they might risk something lethal.

With a sigh, Youngho switched to stretching his biceps, swallowing whatever pain insisted on thrumming underneath his skin.

“I think,” said Ten, carefully unfolding again and moving his legs to a different position, "that She chose to have humans wield Her power because we can only truly understand each other." Ten flinched at pushing himself too far and adjusted accordingly. “Natural disasters do nothing to the people they don’t touch, usually, but maybe other humans can make others listen.” He lifted his hand from his calf and tilted it in frustration. “I didn’t say that well, but I’m tired.”

Youngho shrugged, managing a smile and the tiniest brush to Ten’s fingers before he went back to stretching. Ten cast him a glance and an instinctual, tiny responding smile. “I think I get it. Maybe we’ll get answers someday.”

Ten gave another measured exhale as he massaged his thigh. “Or maybe not.”

Youngho conceded. “Or maybe not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Only one chapter left. If I've done everything correctly, it ought to be our farewell to this portion of their story. I'm so, so excited to start the sequel. If anything, this particular fic has been only the prologue to that one.
> 
> I'm not totally sure how I feel about this chapter! These scenes so far have been about tying up ends, so it feels wrong for me to introduce Jungwoo's arc now. I needed to fit it in before we say goodbye so the sequel has the proper scaffolding but oof it feels weird. I hope it didn't feel as wrong to you guys *rubs face* I might have to go back to fix it.
> 
> Anyway. I've rambled for far too long. We only have two more voices to hear properly before we go ♡ See you next week! Let me know what you think if you have any thoughts or suspicions!
> 
> (BAS will likely update tomorrow for those of you who follow that one as well ♡)
> 
>  
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)  
> [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)  
> [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


	33. The Future

_“Global wheels revolve: vast, familiar changes. Modes of world control shift, back and forth, from Terror to Seduction. Icy political walls fall; hot markets erupt. War Gods retract oiled missiles; Money Gods open shopping malls. Overnight, they reverse: peace is bulldozed for a new battlezone. Universal freedom to Buy (they say) means individual freedom to Be. Then the money disappears; chaos/tyranny extinct all rights, needs, dreams beyond a price tag. Or a gun. Inside these manufactured wheels, final gears grind: earth depletion, pollution, trash. Our planet of biological forms venally redefined as functions of a thing-producing machinery. Forests, elephants, ozone: disappearing. Healthy soil, air, water: all depleting. Human place and integrity are endangered species (they won’t appear again on this wheel).”_ \- Barbara Mor

 

Chenle let out a steadying breath.

Across from him, Jeno smiled, waiting for Chenle to recover.

Chenle was always sprinting toward a time where he would catch up to Jeno, but as he got older, it wan’t like Jeno stopped aging. At twenty-one, Jeno still beat him as soundly as he had when Chenle was fifteen.

Jaemin sat on the railing of the forecastle, legs hooked in the balusters and ivy while he read. Chenle could hear Yoonoh and Dongyoung in the orchard far along the quarterdeck picking fruit for dinner. Renjun was somewhere in the shrouds with Donghyuck and Youngho, and Jisung was backed up against the main mast—watching like he always was.

It should have made Chenle nervous to have Jisung watching, but after so many years of Jisung seeing him fail, Chenle really found it difficult to feel worried about how he was perceived. And Jisung’s quiet insights were helpful. He’d rather learn then be cagey about letting his best friend and crush see him knocked to the Neo’s earthen deck. Besides, if Jeno could do it twofold, he could manage it with just one.

Chenle rubbed some of the dust off his face and reached back to rebraid his hair, taking in the last full lungfuls of air before he’d reengage. His muscles ached. It had been maybe an hour at this session, and he had endurance, but he’d wanted to win.

Against Jeno, Chenle won one spar for every five lost.

But Jeno’s Chaos was madly annoying, and Chenle couldn’t actually use his or else risk breaking several of Jeno’s bones, which… everyone, including himself, would have a fit over (Jeno would probably complain the least). He didn’t actually want to _hurt_ Jeno. He just wanted a two-to-five ratio, maybe.

“You can do it,” Jeno said, the sunlight bolting white across his cheekbones and shoulders like water against honey, and Chenle sighed.

Then, he inhaled and whisked forward, waiting for the switch.

It came, like always, in the smell of rich cedar and a fizzle of warmth. Once upon a time, swapping positions with Jeno would make him wobble and fall—he still would, sometimes, if Jeno did it at just the right time for himself and the wrong time for Chenle. Now, though, the beginning of their matches was a ritual. Spring, switch, remember the feeling, steady, strike.

He reoriented himself and lashed out for Jeno’s neck, Jisung visible to him, now, instead of behind his back. Jeno leaned away, bringing up his palm against Chenle’s forearm to redirect his momentum. Chenle eased into the transition, leaned into this legs, and just barely backed off in time to miss an elbow strike to his own neck with a rushed exhale.

Jisung gave a tiny whistle, and Chenle barely managed to prevent a glow rising to his cheeks.

Jeno smiled anyway because he saw _everything._

Chenle didn’t let himself dwell, settling his weight more toward the deck as the Neo rose over a swell, and kicked out to aim for the back of Jeno’s knee.

Cedar, warmth.

Chenle gasped and staggered, the tilt of the ship opposite the feet he’d prepared for, and he felt Jeno just barely cuff his shoulder before Chenle was too far away for his arms again.

He felt Jisung’s thin fingertips against the small of his back, the breath of him leaning in, and Chenle thought, for a moment, that Jisung would push him back at Jeno. Go. Start again.

Instead, Jisung’s arm curled around his waist.

“Lele’s tired,” Jisung said simply, and a drizzle of defeat swathed itself over Chenle’s insides.

Jeno conceded—he was sweating, too, mud streaked against his jaw. Chenle hadn’t really noticed. “A draw,” he suggested, and backed off to his own boy to collect the rag Jaemin had draped across his knees.

Chenle heard Jaemin say, “God, don’t touch me. You’re so gross right now—” and then a yelp, but he already had his eyes closed and was leaning into Jisung.

He could almost sense Jisung scrunching his nose. He wasn’t immune to sweat and grime any more than Jaemin was. “I’ll bathe in a second,” Chenle promised.

Back when Chenle was fifteen, Jisung’s Chaos had still smelled like his mother’s favorite tea. Now, Chenle couldn’t make out what he smelled like anymore—his scent profile had changed as Chenle’s definition of trust had changed. He smelled human, maybe. Like anyone ought to smell. Either way, it still knocked Chenle out at night like being clipped with a steel beam.

“How’s practice for you?” Chenle asked, and pretended he didn’t hear Jisung’s grumble when he twisted in his grip and nestled into him more fully.

“Hyung gave me his old gun,” Jisung said, and Chenle felt a bolt of pride rush to his head. With regret, he let Jisung go and took a step back.

“Really?”

Jisung nodded, glittering quietly in his own rush of pride. There were nerves in his eyes. There always were.

“Think you could shoot someone now?” Chenle teased, knowing the answer would be ‘not really,’ as always.

“Maybe.”

Oh.

“Taeyong-hyung says it’s easiest when he’s scared for one of us,” Jisung said, and reached down to grip Chenle’s hand. Chenle let him begin their way toward the hatch to the orlop deck where the water pooled. “I’d do it if it meant saving one of you.”

Chenle sucked in a breath, then laughed—not mockingly. Never mockingly. Just fondly. “For a second I thought about how you’re grown up, then realized…” Chenle smiled, wry. “… how sad that is.”

Outside their haven called home, the world was on fire. Chenle had seen it, breathed in it, choked on it. All of them had wondered aloud, silently, yelling it, crying it, what the point was.

If they had made an inch of a difference.

As the two of them climbed down into the orlop, they passed Sicheng on his way out, still trickling water from his knotted hair. He smiled at them both and tried to avoid dripping on them as he passed. Somewhere on the ship was the rest of their crew, and elsewhere in Chaos Relative were hundreds of other ships and crews.

On the other side of their world was slowly ascending ruin.

If Jisung weren’t his melatonin, Chenle wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.

He let his eyes drift closed as the soft, lush leaves of the lower deck brushed up against his clothes. He imagined the Neo was comforting him, though he didn’t know why. It was their role to bring her peace. To bring her solace.

Were they failing?

Finally, Jisung spoke just as his toes met the edge of the pool. He looked away as Chenle tugged off his shirt. “I just think nineteen years isn’t enough,” he said. So softly Chenle almost didn’t hear him. But he did.

He tried not to trip, heart thudding, as he discarded his shoes and stepped into the water. “I think I agree,” he managed to say, and smiled when Jisung’s eyes finally fell on him, his own mouth hooking in something too-significant. “We’ll make it work,” he promised, though he didn’t know how.

The earth was worth saving, Chenle figured, for so many reasons. One of them just happened to be Jisung.

With Chaos’s waters up to mid-calf, he waded to the little fall that spilled from her cracks. He tugged his braid loose and let her untangle him as Jisung sat at the edge with his toes in the water. Chenle felt it all just begin to wash away. The grime, the grim feelings, the sweat.

More than just Jisung were his brothers, his past, nature and beauty, and, most of all—the future.

It was worth fighting for, crying for, bleeding for.

And he’d do it for as long as he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has read this far, thank you.
> 
> I'll see you again in their stories of Chaos with the sequel, though it will come after (I reckon) a few months.
> 
> In the meantime, I would love to hear your thoughts. What hooked you? What have you loved most? What are you excited for?
> 
> I've been... rendered speechless by your support and love for a story I really thought might be a total miss. I didn't know people would like it, let alone love it, and I'm touched and grateful and so sorry to see this part of the story closed.
> 
> I hope I didn't disappoint with this ending. It's a jumping off point, at the very least, but also some closure, I hope, for the journey you accompanied me on. I truly lack the words to be articulate right now. I can only hope your investment was worth it.
> 
> Just... thank you so much ;; I love you guys. Thank you. Please feel free to bother me. Please let me know how you feel. Yell at me, gush at me, whatever ;; ♡ 
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/speckledsolana)   
>  [curiouscat](https://t.co/zW26zmaxzw?amp=1)   
>  [tellonym](https://tellonym.me/solananne)


End file.
